


i left a taste in your mouth

by emso



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Bodyguard, Explicit Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Porn With Plot, i swear at one point it really was without a trace of plot tho, like i mean literally nothing there is no plot, nothing else to see here, oh also VERY brief atsumu x random chick, spoiled rich kid atsumu and bodyguard omi thats it folks, yeah sorry it became a porn with plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26789647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emso/pseuds/emso
Summary: Sakusa fixes him with a vague expression of something like distaste. There's a scathing edge to his tone when he speaks. "Contrary to what you seem to believe, not everyone who meets you is instantly dying to get into your pants, Miya.""Lucky I don't really care right now what 'everyone' wants to do, then." Atsumu swivels his mug around on the tabletop a few times, and then brings it to his mouth to drain the last few dregs of his latte. Over the rim of his mug, he adds casually, "Just you."Whoa hey Bodyguard Omi, I think Spoiled Rich Kid Tsumu might possibly have a teensy crush on you.(Full credits tothisby @anta_baka00 [twt] for heavy inspiration! Go shower it with love if you haven't already !!)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 203
Kudos: 1671
Collections: ~SakuAtsu~





	1. green like american money

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinee_anthozoan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinee_anthozoan/gifts).



> *inhales* g u y s
> 
> ep 14 has brought back all my atsumu feels and then this incredible concept appeared in my life and i just HAD to use it as motivation to do some practice scribbling but. deadass. i could ONLY work on this under a set of incredibly specific circumstances: with pen and paper by the light of only my shitty desk lamp, during the unholy hours of 1 to 3.30am, listening to a "playlist" (if u can call it that) of like the same 4 songs on repeat, and with the window open even though sydney's doing backburning right now and i was inhaling straight up SMOKE. so………ngl i'm a lil delirious rn and……………idk HERE just have it bYE xx
> 
> // title from 'bitter' by fletcher //

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _chapter title from 'american money' by børns_

If Atsumu's being really, truly honest with himself, he thinks he might've been looking at Sakusa from the very beginning.

It's a strange, idiosyncratic place Sakusa occupies in his life. Atsumu's father had described him as a "personal bodyguard" when they were introduced to one another, but it's always been exceedingly clear to them both that Sakusa is more of a glorified babysitter. It's why he'd been instructed to move into Atsumu's apartment from the outset, to follow him around quite literally everywhere, and to report back regularly to Old Man Miya, who seems to be developing quite the suspicion that Atsumu's constantly up to no good. And though it’s probably not altogether a totally unwarranted suspicion, Atsumu still takes issue with it. As a matter of _principle._

On top of that, though, there's also the fact that Sakusa, specifically, is… annoying. Atsumu complains about this point so incessantly over the phone those first few days that Osamu eventually demands to meet Sakusa in person, and upon Atsumu graciously allowing him to do so, he then has the _nerve_ to turn around and say, "I dunno what you're blabbin' so much about, you moron. How is he even annoyin' you? He clearly doesn't give two shits about you."

Yes, but that's exactly the _problem_ , isn't it? He's so annoyingly, impeccably _dispassionate_. Despite literally getting to stalk him for money, despite getting to dwell in the most personal parts of his life, Sakusa Kiyoomi has never even given off the shred of an indication that he 'gives two shits' about any of it. _Any_ of it. And that doesn't change, even a month in – three months in – six.

Sakusa might be contractually obligated to watch Atsumu at all hours, but it feels like the only one who’s _really_ looking has been – from the very start – Atsumu.

Well – he'd be blind not to. The guy is ethereally statuesque, irritatingly competent, and, of course, dazzlingly enigmatic. Half a year into Atsumu's constant attempts to prise him open, he’s forced to grudgingly admit that his efforts have somewhat backfired, as he's achieved little more than making Sakusa now feel comfortable enough to toss relentless quips (read: insults) at him for every conceivable reason under the sun. And in spite of that, everything else about him is a coded mystery still. So perhaps it's no surprise then that Atsumu's developed this little obsession on the side – after all, he's always been oddly drawn to things that everyone else finds too difficult to even approach.

 _Challenges._ If they don't find him on their own accord, Atsumu's the type to create them for himself. Samu likes to overanalyse this and tell their father that it's why he "acts up so much", and whether there's anything in that claim Atsumu's never bothered to interrogate, but he knows it's at least true that he certainly never backs away from a chance to test a _what if,_ for no reason other than to test it, even if there's likely nothing in it for him.

 _What if_ he nicks the crystal bottle of gin in his father's study and chugs it all on a completely random and otherwise unimportant Tuesday night? (Good, but not worth the hangover, or his card being cut off for a week afterwards.) _What if_ he does his own bleach job this time, instead of texting Terushima to tell him it's time for another touch-up? (Terushima had cried when he'd sent over a photo of the finished product.) _What if_ he rings up that jeweller all the new-money kids rave about, and tells them he's sent over an assistant with a wad of cash and the expectation that she'll return with 'something exciting'? (A gold band encrusted with rubies and topaz he now keeps on his ring finger, just because.)

And, most recently – _what if_ he tells beautiful, incomprehensible, untouchable Omi, over a leisurely breakfast of coffee and eggs on a morning much like any other, that lately he really likes to just look at him?

"I told you not to call me that," Sakusa says automatically, sipping at his espresso with the usual crinkle of disgust in his nose as he watches Atsumu drown several teaspoons of sugar in his latte. He's already fully dressed for the day; Atsumu's in a ratty T-shirt and boxers.

"And I just told you that I like lookin' at you," Atsumu says, marvelling once again at how fucking _incalculable_ he is. Reliable as clockwork. "You're not gonna say anythin' else?"

Sakusa neatly scoops up the final bite of his egg. "What else am I supposed to say?"

"I dunno. Ask me why, maybe?"

"Okay." Swallowing, Sakusa puts down his fork and unenthusiastically looks up from his plate at last. "Why, then?"

Atsumu props his chin up in one hand and regards him across the table. "Is there anyone who'd get mad at me if I tell you it's 'cause you're pretty?"

Sakusa gives him a long, inscrutable look, and then abruptly rises to his feet, his chair scraping noisily across the floorboards. He picks up his empty plate and cup and takes them to the sink, pausing there for a second with his back to the table. Atsumu waits, holding his breath.

"Not that it's any of your business," comes the eventual reply, "but no, there isn't."

A pleased thrill diffuses through Atsumu as Sakusa turns around and returns to the table. He doesn't sit down. Resting his hands lightly on the back of his chair and standing behind it, emphatically maximising the space between himself and Atsumu, he says, "…About the cocktail party tonight."

Atsumu gapes at him. Sakusa's expression doesn’t change.

Is that seriously the end of that discussion? _Nothing_ else? Really?

"I've been instructed you're to leave it alone." A half-frown now graces Sakusa's delicate features, as though he’s dubious about the constructiveness of delivering this message. "If you end up successfully propositioning someone to… stroke your ego again, keep things moderate. They won't be leaving with you."

Okay. He's still a little floored by how effortlessly they've just moved past his spontaneous confession, but _this_ demands Atsumu's full attention. "If I proposition someone to do _what_ now?" he scoffs. " _Stroke my ego_? Omi. That's the dumbest euphemism for havin' a fuck that I've ever heard. What are you, ninety?"

"Fine," Sakusa says disdainfully, not missing a beat. "Try not to convince too many unfortunate souls into _fucking_ you tonight, because you won't be allowed to bring anyone home."

Atsumu's breath stutters – just a little. With some effort, he forces an unconcerned grin onto his face. "I don’t think they need much convincin'," he manages to say. "Usually the opposite, actually."

Sakusa fixes him with a vague expression of something like distaste. There's a scathing edge to his tone when he speaks. "Contrary to what you seem to believe, not everyone who meets you is instantly dying to get into your pants, Miya."

"Lucky I don't really care right now what 'everyone' wants to do, then." Atsumu swivels his mug around on the tabletop a few times, and then brings it to his mouth to drain the last few dregs of his latte. Over the rim of his mug, he adds casually, "Just you."

Sakusa exhales slowly, as though the very passage of air through his lungs is paining him. "You aren't funny," he says. He sounds distinctly unimpressed.

Atsumu doesn't crack a smile. "Only when I'm not jokin'."

The silence that follows this is bizarrely undefinable – it's neither definitively condemning, nor wholly exculpating. Sakusa's face is impeccably arranged into that one expression of guarded vacancy Atsumu's practically memorised at this point. He kind of wants to tear it, with nothing but his bare hands, right off those carelessly pretty features.

 _What if_ , he finds himself thinking, inevitably, _what if I just got up and kissed you right now?_

For once, he doesn't test it. But he does say, "You haven't been watchin' me closely enough if you think I'm only kiddin', Omi."

The only hint that Sakusa's at all affected by this is the absence of the customary _don't call me that_. Otherwise, he barely even moves.

"Maybe we need to fire you," Atsumu muses, into the silence.

Sakusa throws him a withering look at that and decisively tucks his chair in. "…The car's scheduled to pick you up at five. Azumane will bring along your suit at half-three. You might consider showering before then, you look like someone dug you out of the ground." He rattles off this list with a kind of flat efficiency, clearly counting down the seconds until he can bolt. "If you need anything – I'll be inside."

"Is that an invitation?" Atsumu calls after him, as he vanishes into his room. The door shuts behind him with a little more force than strictly necessary. Atsumu grins at the slam. It's not all that clear yet whether that worked – or just pissed Sakusa off – but one thing's for sure, and that's more than he's been able to say with certainty for the past six months they've been living together.

Atsumu definitely won't be the only one _looking_ anymore.

\- + -

The cocktail party's taking place in the penthouse of some sleek, recently-developed high rise. Atsumu thinks there might've been some pretense of it being a charity event, but as always it's clear that most of the planning efforts simply went to decking out the venue as lavishly as possible. Several chandeliers hang from the lofty ceilings, throwing kaleidoscopic light off their dripping crystals; a long marble table at the centre of the room is entirely covered by rows of unopened vintages, ready to be served; and large, gold-framed mirrors span much of the wall space, reflecting the already expansive view of the skyline they have through the panoramic windows. It gives off the impression that the whole place is swimming in the infinite cornflower blue of the early evening horizon.

Atsumu lets out a low whistle as he unbuttons his suit jacket; today's is a pearly grey. "Wow. Nice."

As he moves to slot in amongst the chattering partygoers, bracing himself to make the usual rounds, Sakusa reaches out to briefly grab his arm. "Miya," he says, eyeing him distrustfully. "Remember. Don't get carried away."

Bristling at his tone, Atsumu tries his best to ignore the way his skin ignites beneath Sakusa's hand. " _Geez_ , I get it, I get it. I'm not an idiot, y'know. You can stop _worryin'_."

Shaking him off his arm, Atsumu turns and walks resolutely away from the entrance, plunging himself into the whirling nucleus of the crowd without looking back. He doesn't _have_ to look to know Sakusa won't be far behind him, anyway. He never is. He's always – just close enough to see, just too far away to touch: that's Sakusa Kiyoomi. He grits his teeth in annoyance.

He doesn't want to be here. He never wants to be. But he's better at these than Samu, and terrible at everything else, so he gets sent to them almost on a weekly basis with the unspoken arrangement that in return Old Man Miya will largely turn a blind eye to whatever else he gets up to. As long as he doesn't cross any lines – as long as the content of whatever's said in those bodyguard-to-father gossip sessions isn't too incriminating – he gets left to his own devices. He gets to entertain his what-ifs and live in his nice apartment and buy lots of nice things.

But that doesn't make these any less tedious. Words can't even begin to describe just _how much_ he'd rather be sitting in his dining room in his boxers, with his latte that's more sugar than coffee, and his hair looking like someone 'dug him out of the ground', enjoying the quiet, one-of-a-kind luxury of getting to watch Sakusa eat his eggs.

"Lots on your mind?" A familiar voice finds him, breaking through the mess of effusive greetings and tittering small-talk. A slender arm snakes around him from behind, slotting a champagne flute into his hand. "Doesn't suit you, Atsumu."

He's already smiling as he turns around. "What d'you mean?" he says, feigning offence. "I think about stuff all the time. Been a bit of a philosopher, these days."

Chiyo arches an eyebrow at him sceptically, playing with the string of sapphires hanging from her neck. "Oh? Go on, enlighten us then: philosophising about what, exactly?"

He takes a swig of champagne. Bubbles zip warmly down his throat, loosening it. "...What-ifs."

"When are you not? Still… I suppose I can get on board with that.” She clinks her glass against his. “Let's get out of this _mob_ first, though – I can hardly breathe."

Without waiting for a response, she takes him lightly by the hand and leads him over to one of the cream-leather French chaises that line the perimeter of the room, overlooking the darkening cityscape below. It's already half-occupied; there's only a single space left at one end.

Chiyo pushes him down into it with the press of one manicured hand on his shoulder, and then gracefully seats herself in his lap, still holding onto her champagne flute. Its rim is decorated by a cherry-coloured print in the shape of her lips. Ah – she only wears that shade, Atsumu recalls belatedly, when she's on the hunt.

"Oh, clever boy, you remembered," she says, following his line of sight. He tears his eyes away from the flute to give her a look; she lets out a pleased laugh, and leans in close. Her throat smells heavily floral today – roses, vanilla. It's overpoweringly saccharine. "So – for old times' sake? There's a 'what-if' for you."

The beginnings of a gentle rebuff are already on the tip of his tongue when he just so happens to glance, fleetingly, over her shoulder. Caught off-guard, he double-takes as he inadvertently makes eye contact with none other than Sakusa – who's currently standing by the curlicued frame of one of the huge mirrors on the far wall, doused in the ambiguous, bruised periwinkle of the dying sunset, adjusting his earpiece with one elegant hand as he impassively watches Atsumu from across the room.

An unexpected shiver travels down the full length of Atsumu's spine. Heart suddenly racing in his chest, he swallows down his _maybe not tonight, sweetheart_ and laboriously drags his gaze back to Chiyo.

_What if…?_

"Well?" she purrs.

A dozen images slip unprompted through his slightly blurry brain. A hand on his arm, accompanied by a murmured instruction not to let himself get carried away. Satiny lipstick that'll undoubtedly leave its bloodstains littered all over his mouth and chin. Sakusa standing there, in his perfectly fitted suit, the same coal-black as his carefully blank eyes. A door that was slammed shut a little too hard to be considered just _nothing_.

He blinks up at Chiyo, once – and then, before he can think too hard about it, smoothly closes the distance between them to press their lips firmly together.

She immediately deepens the kiss with practised ease, lashes butterfly-fluttering against his cheeks. They fit together out of habit and no more – it's their little heir-and-heiress routine, strictly no-strings, practically businesslike. Over time any initial twinkle of intrigue has faded into something more familiar and convenient; a balmy kind of sultriness, a comfortable flame. Atsumu _knows_ that that's what it usually feels like with her.

And yet – right now – every hair on his body is standing on end. Electricity sparks and skitters across his skin, and he's breathlessly giddy, his hands quivering with the sheer dosage of adrenaline surging through his entire system. He's acutely aware, too, that Chiyo's not responsible for it; any of it. Because he knows exactly who _is_.

Keeping their lips locked together, he looks up past her shoulder once more to seek out that lingering gaze.

He finds it at once. Sakusa's staring straight back at him expressionlessly, the utter picture of professionalism, traced with the faintest hint of condescension. Atsumu knows what a sight he must be right now – he can _see_ himself in the wall mirror, lying back lazily against the backdrop of the glittering city, Chiyo dressed like a painting and draped across him – but Sakusa doesn't flinch as he holds his eyes, unfaltering, indifferent.

His toes curl.

 _Why_ is that so incredibly hot?

Roses and vanilla flood his senses dizzyingly. Somehow, he finds himself now struggling to string together any semblance of a coherent thought, feeling inordinately buzzed for the three sips of champagne he's consumed. His breath comes in shallow fumes as though Chiyo's sucking all of the air straight out of his lungs.

No: not her. Still not her. Rather, the air's been _punched_ out of his lungs, by a hand he's only ever felt through far too many layers of clothing – a hand that still isn't even close to touching him, but that he suddenly, desperately _needs_ , in his hair, around the nape of his neck, beneath his chin to tilt him up into a kiss.

He bites back a groan at the mental image and instead raises a trembling hand to comb slowly through the opalescent cascade of Chiyo's hair. Sakusa's eyes follow the movement with a kind of aloof scrutiny. He's being picked apart, Atsumu thinks in his delicious haze, he's being laid on an examination table and stripped down to nothing so Sakusa can meticulously incise open every corner of his body just to stitch it back up again. At the total mercy of that utterly unreadable mind.

Feeling light-headed, Atsumu finally breaks apart from Chiyo, sweeping her hair aside to instead kiss down the length of her neck. She sighs blissfully and lets her head fall to one side. Atsumu revels in his expanded field of vision, locking eyes again with Sakusa over the valley where Chiyo's neck meets her shoulder, his pulse roaring in his ears as he gathers what's left of his lucidity to mould his expression into the closest reproduction of what he'd say out loud if only he could right now.

_Well? Like what you see?_

And for a moment there, he gets to believe he's won this, whatever _this_ is. Sakusa lets him. Which is perhaps why he doesn't get the chance to fully prepare himself for what happens next.

Really, it's almost nothing. Atsumu only catches it with how religiously he was watching for _anything_. But for a split second, the immaculate screen of apathy on Sakusa's face cracks: just barely.

The tiniest quirk, of just one patronising eyebrow – as though to say to him, loud and clear and cutting from all the way across the dusk-lit room—— _really, Miya?_

Atsumu stares back at him, winded. His hand slips an inch involuntarily. Sakusa looks away.

"Whoa, darling, you okay?" Pulling apart from him, Chiyo presses a hand to his feverish cheek. "Your pulse just _jumped_."

"Hm?" He tears his gaze away from Sakusa with some difficulty, frustration coiling inside him at how quickly that face managed to seal up again. Heat courses through every one of his veins and arteries. His fingertips thrum where they rest lightly on Chiyo's back. As his senses slowly return to him, and he takes stock of his situation, he realises – with dawning hyper-awareness – that he can't feasibly deny it any longer.

God. He's never been so turned on in his _life_.

"Atsumu." Chiyo sounds concerned now, tapping twice against his cheek. "Hey. You with me?"

"I'm." His voice breaks a little, gravelly and odd, and he swallows thickly as she frowns. "Fine. 'M fine. I just…" He meets her eyes, trying to compose himself. "…Might dash to the… restroom."

Right. Okay, that works.

"For a quick sec," he adds, for credence.

She blinks in surprise, but obligingly slides off his lap. Atsumu adjusts himself as subtly as he can before getting to his feet. "I suck, I know," he says, brushing a kiss against Chiyo's ear. He doesn't miss her quizzical once-over as he momentarily grabs the end of the chaise to steady his shaky legs as he leaves. "…Won't be a minute."

He's just turned the door handle to the bathroom when he feels Sakusa appear behind him. Closing his eyes briefly, he swings the door open regardless, stepping in as resolutely as he can manage at the moment and positioning himself in front of the wash basin furthest from the bathroom entrance. He takes a deep breath. Stares at himself in the mirror in a slight stupor. And then turns the cold water on forcefully.

From over by the door, Sakusa says, "Are you alright?"

A frenzied sort of half-laugh tips over Atsumu's lips as he glances up to catch the dark eyes of Sakusa's reflection. The water keeps running. "Am I _alright_?"

"Are you?"

He splashes his face with a handful of freezing water, and then shakes out his dripping fringe, flinging tiny droplets into the sink. "That's a _great_ question, actually. Y'know – I couldn't tell you."

Somewhat cagily, Sakusa walks further into the bathroom. He pauses after three or four steps before going to stand by the vanity a little way away from the wash basins, leaning back against it on his hands, somewhat stiffly. The dim bathroom lighting casts sharp shadows across his face. Atsumu looks up from the sink to steal a fleeting sideways glance at him.

"You're killin' me," he hears himself say, and it echoes through the otherwise empty bathroom, its subtext damning. "I really think I might die. Then you'd definitely get fired."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Like fuck you aren't," Atsumu says, and sees Sakusa shift almost imperceptibly at the edges of his periphery. "You're standin' there – lookin' like – like _that_. That's plenty."

There's a pause, and then Sakusa says something like "I don't know what you're talking about", and honestly it's probably just the sheer _audacity_ of it that finally kicks Atsumu into gear. Turning abruptly, he strides over to the vanity; Sakusa watches him, unmoving, as he approaches. He stops only when they're less than an arm's length apart.

"I already told you _exactly_ what I'm talkin' about." He takes a deliberate step closer. "You're smart. Don't play dumb with me."

Something flickers in Sakusa's eyes, evanescent, before he manages to chase it away with his usual rehearsed deftness. And actually – now with this unprecedented proximity, now that he's actively looking for it – Atsumu finds himself wondering, for the first time, whether the thing Sakusa's really mastered _isn't_ apathy at all. _What if_ , he thinks in a rush as something smoothly slots into place, Sakusa's just very, very good at quietly camouflaging anything else that threatens to trickle through, just in time for Atsumu to miss it?

Except it's impossible to miss now. It's impossible to miss when he's this _near_. When there's no breakfast table between them; when there's no bedroom door.

"You always do that _thing_ with your face." Atsumu takes another step. They're close enough now for him to pick up on the faint scent of Sakusa's aftershave. It's something clean and citrusy – grapefruit, maybe – with something sweeter and woodier underneath – cloves, patchouli. He smells _warmer_ than Atsumu had expected. "What is it I'm not supposed to see? What are you so afraid of, Omi?"

"Not you, certainly." Anything readable is already wiped clean from Sakusa's eyes, but there's no way Atsumu's forgetting what darted through them a moment ago. The nebulous fog in his brain has, all of a sudden, settled into a far more manageable kind of fuzziness; and Sakusa's cool voice cuts right through the last of it. "And for the thousandth time. If you could refrain from calling me that…"

Unhesitatingly, Atsumu brings his face close to Sakusa's. Sakusa doesn't flinch. But his fingers do tighten, minutely, around the edge of the vanity, and so Atsumu just crowds him into that instead, putting an arm on either side of him so their hips are mere centimetres apart.

"No, I can't refrain," Atsumu hums, letting his gaze flick down to Sakusa's lips for the barest fraction of a second. "Why? Does it get you all hot and bothered? _Omi_?"

There's little more than a breath – half a beat – before Sakusa says frostily, "Don't be ludicrous."

But it's just half a beat too long to be trivial. Triumph unfurls hotly in Atsumu's stomach as he leans just infinitesimally further forward.

_Gotcha._

"You wanna try that again, only this time like y'actually mean it?" he says, barely able to keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

Sakusa regards him a little warily now, as though intuitively able to tell that's something's clicked, and whatever it is likely isn't going to be doing him any favours. "…You have a terrible personality," he tells Atsumu.

Atsumu hums again. "Yeah, probably," he allows, leaning down to blow softly at the nape of Sakusa's neck. This time Sakusa _does_ flinch, though only very slightly. Charmed, Atsumu drops his head even lower – flinging all caution to the wind – and mouths, _ever_ so gently, at the end of Sakusa's collarbone that peeks out past his undone top button. "But I'm really hot, so I get away with it."

"Miya," Sakusa breathes warningly, even as his neck, seemingly with a mind of its own, tilts itself a couple of degrees to give Atsumu's mouth better access.

"Atsumu."

"Miya. We can't." Two hands leave the vanity edge to wrap around his wrists, and Atsumu smirks into Sakusa's skin, before impulsively flicking his tongue across the jut of that collarbone without warning. Sakusa inhales sharply. His hands flutter on Atsumu's wrists. "You know we can't."

"Okay," Atsumu says readily, his self-assurance blooming as he licks a bold stripe up to Sakusa's Adam's apple, pressing a featherlight kiss there when he reaches it. Neither of them are treating this as even partially a joke anymore – which is, in his puffed-up opinion, a _huge_ step in the right direction. "Go on. Feel free to throw me off, I won't be mad. You've got me by the wrists, haven't you? I know you could have me on the floor in a second"——he exhales at the junction of Sakusa's throat and jaw, goading him, watching his eyes fall closed as his grip around Atsumu's wrists clenches——"if you wanted to."

A heavy, unbearably heated moment passes. Atsumu finally lets up on his meandering trail up Sakusa's throat, lifting his head to bring their faces close enough for their noses to brush. " _Do_ you want to?"

Sakusa opens his eyes. His pupils are blown, an unfamiliar token of treachery that has Atsumu buzzing all over again; they look almost hauntingly dark in the thin light, underlined by the quivering shadows that his eyelashes cast. He parts his lips, subconsciously. The tip of his tongue flicks out to wet them.

"…Do _you_?" he murmurs.

"Wanna be thrown on the floor by you?" Atsumu grins, feeling Sakusa's breath quicken against his mouth. "Wait, was I not makin' that clear enough?"

" _God_ ," Sakusa says, his voice clipping at the end of it, and then all of a sudden he surges forward and they're kissing, roughly, belligerently, Atsumu's lips on fire as Sakusa tugs on them mercilessly with his teeth. He can't help the moan that slips into the heady sliver of space between them. The sound is immediately muffled as Sakusa swallows it down, circling his wrists completely now with firm, cool fingers, holding on tightly and then – in one swift, unanticipated movement – whirling him around so all of a sudden he's the one pinned against the vanity, his hipbones hitting its marble edge, his arms secured firmly into his own back.

Atsumu's chest is heaving with rapid, panting breaths. He tries to gather enough oxygen to protest – but any planned complaint promptly dies on his lips as Sakusa leans into him heavily from behind. He feels more than hears the muted words huffed agains this earlobe. "…Miya. Not here."

His breath hitches. Hardly daring to believe it, Atsumu turns his head back slowly to look at him. "Not… _here_?"

Sakusa has his forehead pressed into Atsumu's shoulder, curls concealing his face from view, as though agonised by the very thought of looking him in the eye right now. "Not here," he repeats in a low voice. "Not – not yet."

Atsumu glances up at the wall clock. Just on six – there's no way they're leaving for another couple hours, at the _very_ least. He whines internally.

"…You sure?" he tries.

"I'm not having sex with you in a bathroom," Sakusa says stonily into his shoulder, and Atsumu shuts his mouth at once, throat clenching at the candid provocation of the words. How is _every_ little thing Sakusa does so ridiculously tempting? Is it – it can't just be him – can it? _Surely_ he has this effect on other people, too?

Sakusa breathes deeply, and then lifts his head off Atsumu's shoulder at last. "You need to go back out there."

His grip's loosened enough for Atsumu to wriggle free and turn back around. The look on Sakusa's face is, by his standards, almost hostile, the conflict in his expression too plain to be disguised. Maybe he's being childish, but it honestly feels a bit like a fucking _medal_.

Atsumu glances down at the crotch of his dress pants. "…Uh. 'M not too sure that's… immediately possible, sorry."

"Well, it'll have to be. There's still a dozen more people you need to talk to." Sakusa steps away and straightens himself out, studiously brushing dust specks off his suit, fiddling with his earpiece. He glances perfunctorily over Atsumu once and reaches for the door. "Sort yourself out. I'll wait outside."

It's genuinely immoral that he doesn't look dishevelled in the least while Atsumu has to stand here and deal with… _this_. "Oh, fuck you," he mumbles a little petulantly, aching in his pants and cursing this entire stupid party for what is surely the millionth time that night.

Sakusa's hand pauses on the handle. Without turning around, and in a voice so incongruously dismissive Atsumu almost thinks he might've misheard it, he just says, "Later."

And then pulls open the door and vanishes to the other side of it.

As it swings to a shut, Atsumu's left staring blankly at the empty space he's left behind, comprehension slowly drizzling through him as he hangs on tightly to the vanity for purchase. He feels a little like his legs might give out. A part of him is honestly still kind of convinced that this entire thing is just a delirious invention of his imagination alone – maybe he's, like – allergic to champagne——

Well. Not that that would do anything to change the reality of the _physical_ state he has to attend to right now. He stares down at his arousal with something like reproach, trying to at the very least steady the absolute sprint of his heart rate as a starting point. He sucks in as deep a breath as he's capable of holding in his lungs – holds it staunchly for five whole seconds – squashes down every voyeuristic Sakusa-centred _what if_ his lust-riddled brain is now unhelpfully supplying him.

And then, exhaling shallowly, he leans over to the nearest wash basin, reaches over to the cold tap, and turns it on as far as it'll go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bro honestly this was………lowkey just meant to be a private piece of writing practice that no one was ever gonna see oop so who even KNOWS if this will actually end up with another chapter ? not me, that's for damn sure


	2. it's not a game (that you are losing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s so incredibly _easy_ to develop an addiction to this: the sight of Sakusa’s carefully-constructed apathy crumbling into pieces, before he can do a thing about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has been brought to you by lennon stella's 'jealous' and the wonderful blessing of a human, [Eskarina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eskarina/pseuds/Eskarina), who endorsed the 4am brainrot that produced this idea and then even read through the draft for me & left validating google doc comments ily
> 
> also like……this whooole thing was just supposed to be a chill pwp writing practice but it's kind of taken on a personality so uM i no longer take any responsibility for what happens from here on out. May Contain Traces of Plot
> 
> oh and before i forget _cough_ ⚠️ **please mind the changed rating** ⚠️

As the clock eventually, unbelievably, hits 9.03pm, Atsumu finds himself thinking that he’d quite like to strangle anyone who’s ever accused him of being 'too impatient’ before.

“Are you _sure_ you’re alright?” Chiyo asks him, in another perfect parroting of the same question she’s been repeating all evening. “I’m actually worried about you, you know. Honestly – if you could see the contortions you’re doing with your face right now…”

But he doesn’t _need_ to see his own face to know precisely how pronounced the irritation on it must be. After all, it’s been no less than three hours – three excruciating, Herculean hours that only seemed to lengthen as they passed – during which Atsumu’s gritted his teeth and spoken to everyone at the party that his father would want him to speak to and complimented roughly twenty-seven different outfits all by the same three designers and laughed at dozens more brutally un-funny jokes about golf, and stocks, and renovation plans. _And_ he did it all without even a single additional drop of champagne. His state of sobriety alone feels like a punishment right now.

“You’ve stayed long enough,” says Chiyo, when he doesn’t answer. “You don’t have to be the last one to leave _every_ party, darling. I don’t think you need to stick around anymore – not if you’re feeling unwell.”

Is that right? He skims through his mental list of names once more, just to double-check. Yes – he’s sure he’s gotten through everyone – at last. A sideways glance in Sakusa’s direction supplies the final confirmation he needs: it seems they agree that every important guest has finally been checked off, because Sakusa gives him a brief nod as their eyes catch.

A rush of long-awaited relief, shot through with a quicksilver excitement, eases the very edges of his restlessness; just sufficiently for him to turn and offer Chiyo a sincere smile. 

“Y’know, I think you might be right,” he says, apologetic. “I think I’ll take off – I’ve been feelin’ a bit off all evening.”

“From half a standard? You’re getting old, Atsumu.” She graciously accepts a peck at the corner of her mouth and fondly taps his cheek. “Go home and feel better, okay? And I’ll see you around?”

“’Course. You know you will.” He straightens, buttoning up his suit jacket with one hand. “Well – I’ll be off, then.”

Or so he would have been, ideally, except the problem with leaving these things is that leaving _itself_ is an entire ordeal. He has to find the host to explain his early departure and shower praise about how well-done everything was, but of course on his weaving path there he’s constantly stopped by people who want to drag him back into some titillating chat about someone’s cousin (he wistfully wonders how unrecoverable the damage would be if he just plugged their mouths with crab canapés), and then on the way out it’s just a different set of people who want him to personally justify to each of them why he’s leaving. By the time he finally makes it to the door, it’s almost half-nine, everyone else is considerably drunker, and Atsumu is ready to _break_ something.

They get into the car silently. Atsumu does make an attempt at ( _innocent!_ ) conversation, but Sakusa immediately silences him with a pointed glance towards their driver and a somewhat barbed, “You know – maybe you should _sleep_ if you’re feeling unwell. I can wake you up when we arrive.”

Atsumu obviously doesn’t sleep. What he does do is sit sprawled in the backseat with his eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror, inside of which bleeding orange streetlamps and blinking city lights throw into crisp contrast the planes and angles of the top half of Sakusa’s face. And while Atsumu watches him like this, Sakusa very studiously keeps his gaze trained on his tinted window. It somehow makes the watching far more enjoyable.

Atsumu’s already pawing at the clasp of his seatbelt with clumsy fingers as they turn into the apartment building, prompting another look of reproval from Sakusa (which honestly does more to spur him on than dissuade him), and then the driver’s dropping them off and pulling away to go park and all at once they’re there, standing in the ten o’clock chill, alone, together, doused in the golden light spilling from the glass double-doors of the lobby. The night air feels quietly charged; with static electricity, with ambivalence.

Atsumu reaches out without thinking and Sakusa automatically pulls away.

“Let’s go in,” he says shortly, so they do.

Something already feels kind of off, but Atsumu tries his hardest to avoid overthinking it as the lift takes them all the way up to the apartment. It’s just Sakusa, he tells himself. Sakusa feels ‘kind of off’ all the time, like a painting on a wall you can’t quite centre, or perhaps a game of whack-a-mole you’re always just an unrectifiable half-second behind. That’s simply how he is. It doesn’t have to _mean_ anything.

But he knows, intuitively, that this time it does. So when they’ve closed the door behind them and Atsumu’s kicked off his shoes and Sakusa’s fastidiously lined his up parallel to the floorboards, the far-too-composed “I thought about it for the rest of the party, and I think we shouldn’t do this after all” that gets tossed into the unlit apartment – as though Sakusa had found the thought of saying it in anything but pitch darkness intolerable – hits him more with a looming sense of dismay than actual shock or surprise.

Whack-a-mole, Atsumu finds himself thinking, absurdly. Blink once, and you’ll get left in the dust.

“I _knew_ ,” he hears himself say, “that we should’ve just had sex in the bathroom.”

Sakusa slants him a sideways look that reads like he can’t quite believe Atsumu is real. “Are you not aware of how unhygienic that is?”

“Well, _I’ve_ never gotten sick from it,” Atsumu retorts, petty, and immediately regrets it. Sakusa’s expression and voice are equally icy when he replies, “How good for you, Miya, remind me to order you a congratulatory bouquet tomorrow. But _I’d_ rather not take any chances.”

“Yeah. Clearly.” He mutters it almost inaudibly, but in the silent apartment it ends up landing a little more like a punch than he’d intended, and Sakusa gives him a sharp look. He doesn’t say anything, though; no attempt at self-defence, no acerbic insult. His muteness is somehow far worse than either of those would’ve been.

When he can’t stand it any longer, Atsumu says, “To be clear, you wanted to.” And then, correcting himself: “No – you _want_ to. Right?”

Translucent moonlight, gossamer-thin and pearly, leaks in through the half-open curtains to pool in Sakusa’s cupid’s bow and on his cheekbones and under his eyes. “…We can’t.”

“That’s not what I'm askin', though.” Atsumu knows he’s being stubborn for no reason – that none of this will help – that it may very well make it all worse. He hurtles on anyway, because _one_ of them has to. “So do you _not_ want to, then?”

Sakusa just repeats stiffly, “We can’t.”

There’s a warning buried somewhere in his voice, one that he won’t say out loud but that they both understand Atsumu is supposed to catch anyway. Frustration flares in him at the realisation that they’re back to going round in the same old circles. But _how_ , exactly, to wedge open a crack in its boundary, just long enough for them both to slip out?

“I’m going to bed,” says Sakusa, already turning away from him. “Unless you need anything else…?”

Oh, Atsumu needs _several_ things from Sakusa. The problem is that it’s starting to look like Sakusa himself might not be very much help with them after all. It’s rather lucky, then, that Atsumu is in fact incredibly well-practised in what he likes to call ‘taking initiative’ and what Samu (maybe fairly) likes to call ‘stirring shit’.

He’s nothing if not a go-getter, after all. And this kind of convolution is only putting him _right_ in his element.

\- + -

So what Atsumu does, for the next four days, is this: absolutely nothing.

He falls back into their usual routine even before Sakusa does. He trudges out to breakfast in his faded tee and boxers. He complains that the milk in his coffee is too hot. He avoids calls from the guy he hooked up with at somebody’s birthday soirée a fortnight ago. And not once does he mention The Incident, or make any more overt advances, or even flirt half as a joke just because he can. He behaves, quite simply, as though their almost-but-not-quite never even happened.

And it’s clearly driving Sakusa _nuts_.

Of course, he pretends it isn’t; he’s a seasoned expert at that. But Atsumu feels an unmistakeably disconcerted stare linger for longer and longer intervals on the back of his head over the course of those four interminable days, even as Sakusa smoothly plays along, returning to old habits and old dynamics with a nimble sort of fluency that is ever so characteristic of him. Atsumu just lets things settle in this way: gradually, delicately. He lets them settle, so that when he eventually pulls the rug out from under both of their feet on the evening of Suna’s annual first-of-spring garden party, he can do it with just a little more flourish. Because Sakusa, he thinks, deserves more than a half-assed effort.

Said evening has just enough of a bite to it – as it does every year – for everyone to keep their coats on as they mill around the gardens sipping on strawberry cocktails and sparkling water. They all come expecting it, paying a little more attention when they pick out their tweeds and wool in flamingo or pistachio or powder blue, so nobody looks too out of place amongst the Technicolor-bright flowers overflowing from every inch of the expansive estate. Atsumu’s in a long, tawny overcoat, tailor-made by Azumane with buttons the colour of a ripe pear running down the full length of the front; Sakusa’s in his usual black.

“Second year in a row you’ve turned up in an unexciting colour, Atsumu,” says Suna, watching them get out of the car and make their way up the gravelly driveway. “What, think you’re too cool for a bit of colour now?”

Atsumu gestures towards his buttons indignantly, and Suna rolls his eyes before offering Sakusa a somewhat amused half-nod in greeting. He then asks – to neither one of them in particular, and with obviously manufactured nonchalance—“Just you, then?”

“If you invite ‘a Miya’,” Atsumu snipes, miffed, “you _know_ they’re gonna send me. So if you want Samu, you should just _invite Samu_ – I’ve been sayin' this to you constantly for, like, the past three years.”

Suna flushes. “I didn’t say—”

“Yeah, yeah, you didn’t, okay.” Flashing him what he knows is an insufferable grin, Atsumu grabs Sakusa’s elbow to drag him off the driveway as a cream Rolls-Royce pulls up behind them. “See ya inside, Suna. And don’t think too much about Samu – it shows on your face.”

They step onto the pebbled pathway winding its way to the flower garden, leaving Suna to bluster on by himself as the back doors of the Royce swing open. Sakusa promptly jerks his arm out of Atsumu’s grip. There’s a little frown creasing his forehead. Atsumu raises an eyebrow at the roughness of the movement, smirking.

“What?” he says, offhandedly. “I can’t even touch you for _business purposes_ now?”

Sakusa’s footsteps immediately halt.

Atsumu slows to a stop and turns around so they’re standing face-to-face, about halfway along the path, surrounded by the honeyed scent of hyacinths and freesia. He knows what he’s just done: shattered the unspoken assumption that they’d be papering over that episode in its entirety. But sweeping something under the rug, Atsumu thinks, rarely works as well as planned when both of you aren’t _really_ committed to it.

No point going for some lacklustre midpoint if you’re going to try at all. He’s realised that what they need, to avoid just being pulled right back to the start, is a little extra _momentum_. 

“Well, if you’ve decided no touchin’,” he continues, reaching deep into his coat pocket, “that’s fine by me. But then you’ll probably need this.”

He ungraciously pulls one of Sakusa’s hands towards his and dumps something into it. Reflexively, Sakusa’s fingers curl in to avoid dropping it; suspicion skims his expression, and then he opens his palm back up, looking down into its contents warily.

His brows furrow. “What is this?”

“Omi! Don’t disappoint me.” Atsumu feels the smirk widen on his face and forces himself to curb it. “You really can’t tell?”

Sakusa exhales darkly and brings his hand to his face for closer examination, narrowing his eyes. “Yes, as in, I can tell that it’s clearly some kind of remote. I’m not stupid. I’m obviously asking what _for_ , not—”

His voice abruptly cuts out. Delightedly, Atsumu watches his eyes widen a fraction as the penny very suddenly drops. It’s so incredibly _easy_ to develop an addiction to this: the sight of Sakusa’s carefully-constructed apathy crumbling into pieces, before he can do a thing about it.

“It’s really quiet,” Atsumu informs him, while a sort of appalled comprehension continues dawning on Sakusa’s face. “In case you’re worried about that.”

“That,” says Sakusa, tightly, “is quite literally the last thing I’m ‘worried about’.” He sucks in a short, sharp breath and swiftly closes his hand to hide the remote from view. “Miya. _Why_ would – you must genuinely be out of your mind. Take it back.”

Ha. As if he would, when this is rapidly becoming even more entertaining than Atsumu had anticipated. “That kinda defeats the purpose, Omi.”

“What on _earth_ would possess you to—” A tittering pair of guests brushes past them in a swirl of gauzy lemon-yellows and lavenders, and Sakusa lowers his voice, visibly aggravated. “Do you think this is funny?”

“A bit, yeah,” Atsumu admits, leaning in so he can murmur the rest in a discreet hush. “…But I mostly just think it’s really hot.”

Sakusa’s fist clenches between them, the alabaster of his skin pulling taut across his knuckles. Two heavy seconds ticks by; a breeze lifts around them, scattering petals, tousling their hair. Atsumu holds his breath – putting his freshly-learned patience to good use – and _waits_.

Shooting him a frigid glare that forbids any kind of vocal celebration, Sakusa finally pockets the remote, somewhat aggressively. “I don’t trust you with this,” he mutters by way of explanation – and then adds snappishly in response to Atsumu’s sly smile, “I have no intention of _using_ it, Miya, so wipe that look off your face, turn around, and keep _walking_ , for God’s sake.”

Barely suppressing his glee, Atsumu does as he’s told and leads them all the way into the sprawling grounds at last. The end of the path opens up into acres of meticulously trimmed grass and rows and rows of spring blooms. There are lights hanging from the garden topiary this year; they bathe the denim evening in a warm, whimsical glow, softening the edges of darkened silhouettes, lacing everything with an irresistible sense of possibility.

Atsumu takes a cocktail from a passing waiter. There’s a sugared apple blossom drifting inside it.

“Well,” he says, taking a measured sip, “I s’pose I’ll be good and go mingle, then.” He glances at Sakusa beside him – just briefly – and then drains half his cocktail in one go. It slides hotly down his throat, buttery and smooth and sweet.

Tonight, when he turns deliberately and steps away, Sakusa doesn’t follow him. But that’s to be expected, he supposes. Sakusa barely needs to be here anyway: the Suna family has their own security generously dotting the estate, and he’s only been dispatched as Atsumu’s customary nanny tonight as always. He’s probably already drifting off to a remote edge of the party area, to shroud himself in invisibility, to see without being seen.

The choice placement might have its perks, Atsumu dares to think.

“ _Tsum-Tsum_! Hey, that’s you, Tsumu, right? Get over here!”

He spins on his heel to look in the direction of Bokuto Koutarou’s unmistakeable yell and is met with a better sight than he’d bargained for. Gathered around a tall ivory standing-table, appropriately clad in spring coats of quote-unquote- _exciting_ colours and with equally lurid cocktails in their hands, is not only Bokuto but a handful of other familiar faces he hasn’t seen in a little while. It looks like there might be an unfamiliar one, too. But of course that can very quickly be rectified – he’s _Miya Atsumu_ , after all. No one stays a stranger for long.

“Aren’t you all a sight for sore eyes,” he calls out to them, as he approaches. Kuroo wryly raises his glass in response – he’s in some kind of comically jam-coloured thing that barely even classifies as being on-theme for the event, and the hand that holds his cocktail glitters with rings. “I’m guessin’ Suna approved of all your… get-ups?”

“And I’m guessin’ he didn’t approve of yours,” says Kita, with an indulgent smile.

Atsumu taps on his top button with a pout. “Nobody’s givin’ me credit for these! They’re _green_!”

He pauses to obligingly tap glasses with a beaming Bokuto, who’s dressed a bit like a bumblebee, before putting the cocktail down onto the table to look around at them all properly. “Hiya, Tobio. I can see you’re really channelin’ your inner carrot tonight – very nice, very nice. And…” His gaze drops onto the – well, frankly, _tiny_ – new guest beside Kageyama. “…I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Yeah,” says Bokuto, “it’s the first year he’s been invited!”

It’s announced with his typical obliviousness, and Atsumu almost winces at its unintentional insensitivity. But a quick look at Tiny Tangerine suggests he’s not offended in the least; in fact, he’s mirroring Bokuto’s expression of somewhat confusing pride, as though he doesn’t care at all about the implications of the declaration and is just thrilled to be here regardless.

 _Huh_. Interesting.

“This is Hinata Shouyou, Tsum, and it’s been decided – we’re taking him under our wing from now on!”

Hinata Shouyou turns to face Atsumu and gives him what can only be described as a radiant smile. “Hello! You’re – from the Miya family, right?”

That smile is _blindingly_ bright in the dim evening. Squint-inducing, almost. “I sure am,” Atsumu says, and then winks, perhaps somewhat boldly. “The better Miya twin, if we’re wantin’ to be specific.”

“This one’s Atsumu,” Kita supplies helpfully.

Atsumu leans playfully closer to Hinata. “But call me whatever you like,” he says, flirting, and Kuroo very blatantly rolls his eyes. But it’s Kageyama who cuts in, in an uncharacteristically sour voice: “We all just call him Atsumu.”

Atsumu feels his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. _Well_. Doubly interesting, now.

“Is that your new bodyguard we heard about, Atsumu?” asks Kita, and they all turn to look in the direction he’s facing. Sakusa is, as Atsumu had expected, standing close to some dark shrubbery, half-cocooned in shadow. He also looks – though perhaps only to Atsumu – somewhat irked. Though he supposes it could well be a trick of the light.

Bokuto chortles loudly. “He’s really watching you like a hawk, Tsum-Tsum. Better be on your best behaviour tonight.”

“So, none of your usual, then?” Kuroo muses. Atsumu blinks at him with exaggerated coquettishness.

“Not sure what you’re talkin’ about,” he says.

As the rest of them laugh at him, Hinata pipes up innocently, “What’s ‘the usual’?”

Kuroo groans as Atsumu swoops in on the opportunity, leaning in even closer to Hinata and swirling his cocktail in one hand. The apple blossom floats inside the syrupy liquid. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says, already guessing that the suggestiveness of his tone will earn him a barely-concealed scowl from Kageyama as Hinata tilts his head in bemusement.

He’s right, of course. But then Kageyama’s so hilariously easy to read – anyone could’ve predicted that. What Atsumu _didn’t_ quite anticipate was the scorch of another cutting gaze, from the fringes of his peripheral vision, so razor-edged that it’s almost tangible. The split-second realisation as to its source hammers into him with all the force of a rocket launch, and his heartbeat trips up on itself embarrassingly.

Too good. It’s too good to believe that this chance meeting with Hinata Shouyou has just gotten _triply_ interesting, right?

“What’re you drinkin’, Shouyou?” he says, his mood instantly buoyed, and then – without waiting for a reply – he reaches over breezily to nick the glass right out of Hinata’s hands. They all watch him fish out the glacé cherry bobbing in it and tug both bulbs off with his teeth, Bokuto and Kuroo looking amused, Kageyama distinctly _un_ amused. Kita simply extends a hand to rescue the cocktail before Atsumu can steal any more of it, handing it back to Hinata apologetically as though he’d been the one to take it in the first place. 

Not that he _wants_ more of it, anyway. Hinata’s drink has well and truly served its purpose, if the chilled acidity of Sakusa’s stare is anything to go by. He shouldn’t be feeling this triumphant over it, probably – it’s kind of lame when he thinks about it – but it’s hard _not_ to, when the person in question is usually so——

Abruptly, Atsumu’s entire frame jerks involuntarily. He scrabbles for purchase at the surface of the table without thinking – flings one hand out a little too wildly – and all at once Kita’s cocktail is flying into the air. 

There’s instant commotion. Magenta liquid arcs above their heads, and Kageyama hastily pulls Hinata out of the way just as it splashes right where he’d been standing; both Kita and Kuroo reflexively dive to grab the glass before it shatters onto the ground, and manage to successfully save it but butt heads hard in the process; and Bokuto hurtles forward to stop the table, which still holds all of their (remaining) drinks, from teetering over by wrapping both of his arms around it in an awkward bear-hug. This is all done raucously enough to attract the attention of a few passing wait staff, who take just one look and rush over to help.

And yet Atsumu registers barely any of it.

While the table is being steadied, and stray cocktail drops are being wiped up, and they’re all no doubt gearing up to yell at him, Atsumu whirls around to stare – disbelievingly – at Sakusa in his foliage-curtained corner. In a quick once-over, he takes in Sakusa’s resolute stance. His steady expression. His unwavering gaze. His hand in his pocket.

His hand. In his pocket.

“No fuckin’ way,” Atsumu breathes, his pulse accelerating. He hardly dares believe it. _Sure_ , this had been – to an extent – the intention of the whole set-up, but he hadn’t really believed Sakusa would do it. He’d more so hoped that in the most realistic case, even the thought of it, the prospect of it, would have maybe wound him up enough that they’d hook up once they got back to the apartment. _This_ is – this is certainly more than he’d optimistically aimed for.

The vibration’s stopped already. That makes sense, considering the chaos around Atsumu right now; the question is, of course, will he do it again—?

“ _Oi_ , Miya-fucking-Atsumu, what the hell was that?”

With a start, he turns back around. He feels momentarily tongue-tied and struggles to find the words he’s looking for.

“Bug,” he settles on, eventually. “I saw a… bug.”

“Yeah, it’s a _garden party_ , what do you expect?” Kuroo says, clearly exasperated. “And just tell us if you see a bug, don’t take out the whole table with it, you idiot. You’re seriously so thick-headed. _So_ thick-headed.”

“You’re lucky Hinata didn’t get hurt.” Kita actually does sound a little disapproving now. Atsumu notices someone’s seamlessly replaced his knocked-over drink with a new one that looks exactly the same. “That could’ve been dangerous.”

If he’s being honest, Hinata looks more than fine clutching onto a rapidly-reddening Kageyama, but he supposes he gets the point. He leans toward Hinata and inspects his collar for stains. “My bad, Shouyou. You okay?”

Hinata nods fervently, releasing Kageyama’s arm at last. “Completely!”

There’s a tiny dot of pink near his shoulder. Atsumu unthinkingly goes to smudge it off with the pad of his thumb, and feels it as soon as he’s made contact with the coarse fabric of Hinata’s coat – Sakusa, he – he’s gone and turned it on again.

His hand falters and skids off Hinata’s shoulder a little feebly. “There, got it,” he says, though he most definitely hasn’t, and quickly steps away.

The pulsating vibration doesn’t let up, though, and he casts a furtive glance back towards greenery in an attempt to deliver about a hundred questions in a single moment of meaningful eye contact. Sakusa hasn’t removed his hand from his pocket, and Atsumu can just make out the outline of his fingers under the fabric, wrapped into a loose fist. He holds Atsumu’s gaze for a tense second – entirely unruffled – before lifting an eyebrow and tilting his chin minutely in the vague direction of their table. As though to ask Atsumu why he isn’t re-joining their conversation.

Jesus _._

Atsumu turns back around, slowly. The talk’s moved on to something travel-related. He thinks Kita might be telling them about his last Serbia trip, maybe. Honestly, it’s a little hard to focus on anything except passing mentions of _Belgrade_ and _gibanica_ —

He jumps, curling his fingers around the stem of his glass as the vibration suddenly increases in speed, eyes briefly falling closed of their own accord. Both his lungs seem to leap into his throat at once as he subtly twists his neck to steal another glimpse behind him, searching Sakusa’s expression for confirmation of what he conjectures this might mean. Sakusa tilts his head impassively in an indisputable gesture for him to turn back around and go on.

Is he being told he has to – actively participate? Like _this_? Really?

“…and Atsumu’s been to even more places. You’re quite the adventurous type, wouldn’t you say?”

He opens his eyes and looks at them all speechlessly. Kita’s smiling, and everyone else is waiting for him to reply, expectant.

Say something. _Say something._

“Hm?” he manages.

“I was just saying you’re quite adventurous,” Kita repeats, ever patient, “and you like trying new things. Right?”

When the question actually registers, it draws a choked laugh out of him, the irony of the situation hitting him as just a little too insane. “Yeah, I’d… I’d say so. New things. Yep. All the time.” He fumbles to adjust his coat surreptitiously and showers his past self with lavish mental praise for having thought to button it up in advance. He can feel his cock already twitching with interest and his dress pants alone would have done _nothing_ to hide it.

“Like your impulse trip to Iceland!” Bokuto pipes up, barging into this frenzied train of thought, and Atsumu doesn’t quite manage to stop himself from throwing him a look of slightly incredulous desperation across the table.

He loves Bokuto, really. Most of the time, his invitations for Atsumu to wax lyrical about himself are welcome doses of fresh air in between the glib nothingness that is party small talk, just. Just – not right now.

“You guys don’t wanna hear about that again,” he says, and it sounds flimsy even to his own ears.

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind hearing about it!” Hinata’s enthusiasm – which had definitely been adorable just a few minutes ago – is starting to feel a lot more like a misfortune of epic proportions. “How was it? Iceland?”

As he’s opening his mouth to give Hinata some bullshit reply, the intensity of the vibration still humming away deep inside him kicks up a notch without warning, stealing his breath. A shudder zips its way down the full length of his spine and coils warmly in the pit of his stomach. Flustered, he lifts his cocktail to his lips, the liquid inside it quivering as he takes a skittish sip.

“…Icy,” he says into the rim, faintly, and Kuroo snorts.

Atsumu puts down the glass and rests his hand on the table instead, staring down at his trembling fingers. Has this vibrator – has this _always_ felt this good? He swears it usually doesn’t feel this intoxicatingly good. Maybe it’s the impossibility of predicting when it’ll escalate – _there it goes again_ – or the adrenaline high elicited by his own fear that someone will catch on – he releases an uneven exhale, biting down hard on his bottom lip to prevent it from turning into a sound far more incriminating – or maybe it’s a combination of those things, and of course the fact that it’s Sakusa who’s tormenting him like this, _Sakusa_ , who is the very embodiment of self-discipline, a picture of composure. With a remote hidden deep in his pocket. That he swore he wouldn’t use.

All because Atsumu stole Hinata’s drink. 

It – all of it – is just kind of _unbearable_. His legs feel like they might give out from beneath him.

Attempting to steady himself a little, Atsumu shifts his weight into his other foot and unintentionally clenches around the vibrator. He barely holds back a gasp at the burst of tingles that immediately spark through his insides. The _problem_ is that that’s not the only sensation he has to fight – because in what is truly a cursed coincidence, Sakusa chooses that precise, wavering moment to simultaneously flick up the intensity setting again, sending a wave of panicked arousal coursing through every bloodstream in his body.

Oh God. Atsumu can feel the heat in his own cheeks, and there’s sweat gathering at the base of his neck, and he’s way, _way_ too hard in his pants right now. But a shard of alarm manages to somehow spear its way through the fog of irrepressible pleasure thrumming under his skin, far too real a prospect right now to be simply ignored: _what_ does he do if – could he – what if he actually _comes_ like this?

He should just walk away. He should tell his friends he needs the bathroom, that he’ll be back in a second, that he’ll kill them if they touch his drink while he’s gone. Atsumu’s never lacked faith in his own ability to pull off his on-brand carelessness in literally any circumstance.

And yet. Right now, his feet feel firmly rooted to the grass, as fluttering heat surges unstoppably through him, blurring the edges of his vision into no more than a haze of softened fairy lights.

 _What do I do now_ , Atsumu implores of the last crumbs of rationality in his brain – feverishly, frantically – as he feels himself edging perilously closer to orgasm. _What am I supposed to do?!_

“Um. Atsumu, are you… okay?”

Startled, Atsumu looks up at the sound of Kageyama’s voice. “…What?”

“You look a bit like you might be in pain. I just wanted to check.”

“Whoa, yeah, you’re pretty red,” remarks Kuroo, leaning over to inspect his face. “You good?”

Can he string together an answer right now? No – no time to ask himself that – he _has_ to. “Yeah, I’m – just. Feelin’ a bit.” The words slur into one another, his voice trailing dangerously into a treacherous whimper despite his every effort to control it. “…Weird. I think, um, maybe I – _oh_ , f–fuck,” he curses, breath stuttering in his chest, as it kicks up yet _again_. His entire field of view swims. He screws his eyes closed.

Kita pats the top of his hand comfortingly, looking concerned. “Should we go fetch your bodyguard?”

“Yeah, I can grab him! Stay right here!” Always the first to move, Bokuto puts his drink down and dashes off before anyone can protest – not that Atsumu had been planning on it. He genuinely doesn’t think he could walk away on his own right now, and it’s not like he’s about to ask any of these guys for help.

He looks meekly over his shoulder to watch Bokuto slow down to a jog as he reaches Sakusa. Sakusa dips his head politely and then listens with apparent attentiveness as Bokuto explains something, his hand staying tucked safely in his pocket as he says something back, seemingly asking a question. As though he of all people needs _clarification_. Atsumu grits his teeth at the shameless stalling.

Finally – _finally_ – Sakusa nods and joins Bokuto as he walks back over to their table. Sakusa meets Atsumu’s glower the entire time, expression smoothed into his trademark pokerface, his eyes cryptic. Only when they’ve come to a complete stop does Sakusa actually speak to him. He still hasn’t turned down the damn vibrator.

“I hear you’re not feeling well,” Sakusa deadpans, perfectly at ease. “Are you alright? I notice that’s been happening quite a lot lately.”

Atsumu musters the dirtiest look he can silently shoot him, afraid to open his mouth lest he, quite literally, let out a moan.

“Perhaps you’ve been taking things too far as of late,” continues Sakusa disparagingly. “A little irresponsible, don’t you think? There are appropriate times to push your limits, of course, but you don’t seem to have particularly good judgment on that front.”

“The whole point of pushin’ limits is that – it’s s’posed to – to be risky, _Omi_ ,” Atsumu grinds out, his voice strained, his hands twitching on the table.

Bokuto glances warily between them. “Um, maybe you can go ask Suna if he has a room somewhere for you to lie down a bit, Tsum-Tsum? I think I saw him over by the band earlier.”

“I’ll take him now – thank you for the suggestion.” Sakusa smoothly slots an arm into his, pulling him from the table with a somewhat merciless speed. Atsumu stumbles and leans into him heavily as Sakusa nods at the rest of the group. “If you’ll excuse us, then.”

Atsumu barely comprehends the well-wishes they all call out to him as he staggers along with Sakusa away from the table. Goosebumps erupt on every point on his arm wrapped by Sakusa’s hand, and he pants for breath openly now, unable and unwilling to spend the effort it’ll take to suppress it any longer. It feels so good. _He_ feels so good. The band – and Suna – seem extraordinarily far away. He thinks his feet might be going numb——

“Pull it together, Miya,” Sakusa murmurs into his ear, and Atsumu shivers at the warm ghost of his breath. “We aren’t in the clear yet.”

“Well, we’d better – be soon.” Even gasping this out is an inordinate struggle. “Because I. I think I’m – ’m gonna come, Omi. Seriously – I—”

Sakusa frowns at him, inspecting his face briefly, and then – thank _fuck_ – Atsumu hears the indistinct click of the remote being switched off in the depths of his pocket. The vibrations instantly let up. Atsumu sags weakly into Sakusa’s arm with a broken sigh of relief.

“ _Whoa_ – when did he get this smashed?” Is that Suna? It’s got to be – they were looking for Suna, right? “Jesus, Atsumu. It hasn’t even been an hour.”

“He just isn’t feeling very well,” he hears Sakusa say, and it sounds like it’s coming from very far away. “Do you mind if I take him inside to lie down for a while?”

Glancing at Atsumu again, this time seemingly in surprise, Suna hurries to say, “Oh, uh, yeah, of course. That guest house with the grey roof just over there has a bunch of spare rooms – Atsumu knows his way around. And let me know if you need anything else.”

At Sakusa’s _thank you, I will_ , Atsumu braces himself to walk again. It’s minutely easier this time without the constant thrum of the vibrator, but he can still feel it moving inside him, pressing into oversensitive muscle, scattering fresh tingles all over again. Not to mention that under his coat he’s still completely hard within the constraints of his pants. It’s not a comfortable walk in the least, but they make it there, _somehow_ , and then Atsumu somewhat incoherently directs Sakusa to the guest room he likes to use on the first floor, with its curtains the colour of thyme and its bedsheets as crisply-pressed as always.

He collapses onto the bed as Sakusa shuts the door quietly behind them. For a moment, he just catches his breath; and then he starts to fumble with the buttons of his coat, extremely ineffectively, until Sakusa huffs out an irked sigh and swats his hands out of the way to do it for him. He makes quick work of them all, flinging each one open with a kind of cold impatience; Atsumu lifts himself onto his elbows to watch him.

“So,” he says, having sufficiently stabilised his own voice at last, “are you plannin’ on, like, watchin’ me, or…?”

Sakusa flicks him a look of sheer denigration as he throws open Atsumu’s coat and then, unexpectedly, kneels down on the carpet to start deftly unzipping his pants. Atsumu blinks at him in astonishment but doesn’t make any move to stop him – even the sight of him down there is honestly unfairly alluring.

When the pants are undone they both wordlessly glance down at his erection, straining against the dampened charcoal-grey cotton of his boxers. Atsumu hopes it isn’t acutely obvious that the suspense of the heady moment has his heartbeat quickening again; he lifts his gaze, and arches an eyebrow at Sakusa, as though sliding forward a particularly daring chess piece.

_Your move, Omi._

Holding his gaze with a kind of adamance, his expression not flickering in the least, Sakusa frees Atsumu’s erection with a swift tug at the waistband of his boxers – unhesitatingly wraps the fingers of one cool hand around its base – and then leans over and swallows him down, deep into the stunning heat of his mouth, before Atsumu even has a chance to register what on earth is happening.

Atsumu’s elbows immediately buckle beneath him and he flops down onto the bed with a bewildered gasp, fisting the pristine sheets in shaking hands, head spinning. Is this – is this real right now? _How_ is this real? Maybe he’s imagining things – is he drunk? Is _Sakusa_ drunk?

“What happened,” he forces himself to splutter, lifting his head even as he struggles for air, “to _we shouldn’t do this after all_?”

Sakusa pulls off him only for long enough to say something along the lines of “this way is least likely to leave a mess” – as if _that_ had been what the question was about – before promptly ducking back down to take Atsumu back between his lips. The taunt halfway out of Atsumu’s mouth turns seamlessly into a faltering groan as he drops his head back onto the sheets, his chest heaving, lungs burning, the oxygen inside them catching fire. Blindly, he reaches down towards his own groin, seeking out Sakusa’s head – finds it – buries his fingers deep into thick curls and tugs. Sakusa makes a little sound in the back of his throat, and Atsumu’s hips jerk up unwittingly as the tremor of it skids down the length of his cock.

“God. _Omi_. You’re – so.” His voice doesn’t sound like his own; he thinks, distantly, that he might be babbling a bit. “I never – I can’t… you’re. Just. _Impossible_ —”

As though in response, Sakusa hollows out of his cheeks and sucks a little harder, and any lasting lucidity evaporates from Atsumu’s brain for good. Every muscle in his body feels stretched completely tight – and yet his organs also feel somehow like jelly, wobbly and pliant inside him as he quivers and falls apart, unresistant, under Sakusa’s remorseless pace.

He’s devouring Atsumu with a kind of characteristically methodical efficiency. Every lick and hum feels deliberately placed to elicit a staggeringly intense burst of pleasure, like Atsumu’s cock is a systematic map he’s completely familiar with, like he knows his way around – even though that can’t be true and he _can’t_ be this good at this – it’s not fair in the least – _how_ is he so good at this?

“Omi,” he whines again, because that’s the single word that has decided to stay with him. His grip tightens in Sakusa’s hair.

Dark eyes flick up to study him through a veil of tangled curls. Atsumu takes some gratification in the image, even as his toes curl helplessly under the cool examination: Sakusa looks _messy_ , and even though his expression betrays almost nothing, the tops of his cheeks are brushed rosy, and a flush creeps up from underneath his collar too, staining the skin of his neck with the barest suggestion of an indecency that doesn’t seem to belong to him.

To be the one to get to see him like this – it’s – fuck. _Fuck._

Neither one of them drops their gaze. Slowly, painfully slowly, Sakusa sinks his lips further down an inch. Atsumu releases an embarrassingly strangled noise but refuses to look away first. He _won’t_ lose in a battle of stubbornness, no matter how lightheaded he feels, no matter how unforgivingly the arousal is now rocking through him, sweeping him closer and closer to the dizzying edge.

And then Sakusa reaches one hand into the pocket of his suit jacket, which he somehow never ended up taking off, and actually goes and _switches on the remote_.

Vibrations ripple across his gut instantly – white-hot stars crowd his vision – Sakusa’s mouth is too hot, his scrutiny too overwhelming – Atsumu feels his spine arch off the sheets, hears himself choke out an anguished cry in breathless fragments, and then – rapidly, inexorably – every extremity of his body goes entirely numb as he comes, hard, spilling into the warm press of Sakusa’s relentless tongue.

As Sakusa sucks him through the last shivers of pleasure, Atsumu falls slack onto the bed, gasping for air. His fringe falls sweat-damp into his eyes, but out of the corner of them he still sees Sakusa pull off him gingerly, yank up his boxers for him, zip his pants back up – and then get to his feet and sigh softly to himself.

His mouth seems – conspicuously empty. Atsumu blinks at him and sits up on the bed. “Where’s, um, my – as in… don’t y'want a… tissue, or—?”

“The whole point of this,” Sakusa cuts in, and though his tone is lofty his voice is edged with an enticing rasp, “was to minimise mess.”

Wait. What?

Atsumu feels his eyes widen, unbidden. “Hang on – are you tellin’ me that you—”

Sakusa says edgily, “Stop talking.” 

“ _You_? Really? I would have thought that _you_ of all people would find that gross—” 

“Miya.” Sakusa closes his eyes and squeezes out a harsh exhale. “Stop. Talking.”

His reason and coherency are slowly returning to him, though, and Atsumu can’t stifle the grin that spreads on his face as he now takes in Sakusa’s undeniable arousal, beneath all that prickliness and scorn. He promises himself _never_ to forget this moment. Not that that even seems possible, but still. “So – d’you want me to return the favour? I’d be _more_ than happy to, by the way.”

Sakusa throws him a hard look. “Absolutely not. I’ll – where’s the nearest bathroom?”

Raising a sceptical eyebrow as he shrugs his coat back onto his shoulders, Atsumu says, “Really? _Now_ you get shy?”

“I’m not _shy_ ,” Sakusa snaps, already moving for the door. “Just – tell me where it is, Miya.”

Atsumu feels a pang of desire as he drinks in that pretty frame – long and lean and as perfectly restrained as always – even though he’s _clearly_ uncomfortable in the confines of his suit, even after having sucked Atsumu dry just moments ago. “Just down the hallway, on your right,” he says at last, somewhat reluctantly. As Sakusa swings open the door, though, he can’t stop himself from adding in a rush, “Omi – will I ever get to touch you?”

Sakusa stills but doesn’t reply, his back to the bed.

“Can I just – check. Is it… is it that nobody’s allowed right now?” Atsumu swallows with a little difficulty, already feeling his grip on the reins of this conversation slipping, wishing he could un-say it, go back to the cosy ambiguous glow he was wading in before he smashed it himself. But he can’t, so he careens on uncontrollably. “…Or just me?”

Without turning around fully, twisting his head only just enough for Atsumu to catch the movement of his eyelashes as he drops his gaze to the carpet, Sakusa says, “Don’t overcomplicate things, Miya. That’s not like you.”

And then – _again_ , always leaving Atsumu on his own like this, scrambling to put together tattered half-hints for any sort of elucidation – Sakusa turns back away, steps out the door, and closes it firmly behind him. Atsumu watches the door long after he’s gone, a low, steady hum ringing inside his ears as he digs his fingers into the bedsheets in dissatisfaction. The flush of body heat still lingers on the downy fabric. Inexplicably, he finds himself thinking of breakfast together, the mellow warmth of sharing the table, and wonders how it would translate into his silken duvet at home, if maybe Sakusa – for once – chose to actually _stick around_.

“You idiot,” Atsumu says out loud, huffing it into the forlorn silence of the room. “As if I’m the one overcomplicatin’ things. You absolute, massive _idiot_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alkjdfalflkjdf ahahahaha ᵇʸᵉ
> 
> ANYWAY: i have finally made a [Proper Twitter Account](https://twitter.com/emsby4) that i actually swear i will try to use but i'm dumb and technologically inept so have 0 idea what i'm doing. pls let me follow u !!! let me talk to u abt all my terrible ideas for this fic !!!! and pls help me figure out exactly how my timeline works !!!!!! seriously like ~~what is a quote retweet and why do ppl not like them~~ sos 🥺🥺


	3. i think you like me out of focus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “Alright, Miya,” Kiyoomi sighs, without loosening his hold on both of Atsumu’s arms. “I think it’s about time to go.”
>> 
>> “Go?!” Atsumu’s chin juts out in an extravagant pout. His slur is now tinged with the traces of a whine. “ _Why_?”
>> 
>> “Because you can barely stand on your own right now, that’s why.”
>> 
>> At this, a leer erupts onto Atsumu’s face, and – to Kiyoomi’s disgust – he starts waggling his eyebrows drunkenly. “Y’didn… _didn’t_ … mind that before.”
> 
> rest in peace, porn without plot tag 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to the lovely [carla](https://twitter.com/caahsks) for recommending me [the song](https://open.spotify.com/track/52hSR5CsLyziuwpZQqd9wI?si=XMwVLE6fSk6jdgysGcZSTg) that was on loop while i wrote and eventually lent a line to the title of this chapter ♡
> 
> cw: intoxication, mention of (metaphorical!) blood

The master bathroom is entirely done in charcoal-greys and glass and is far, far too large. If the circumstances were any different, he might've been more appreciative of its spotless tiles – and the way the handtowels by the basins practically gleam bleach-white on their rack – but right now, in the vast silence of the place, all Kiyoomi can think about is the uncomfortable clarity with which he can hear the raggedly uneven cadence of his pulse, too loud for him to ignore.

His nerves feel threadbare. He gathers up their tattered edges with difficulty, and then rinses them down in icy water at one of the deep marble sinks, thinking hard.

Stupid, _indescribably_ stupid Miya Atsumu. Always turning subtext into text like that. It would’ve been fine if he’d just – _left it_ – but then perhaps that’s too much to hope for from a man who can’t help but push and prod and squeeze a little harder, like a child touching everything at the grocery store, insatiably curious and recklessly bold.

Kiyoomi watches the water weave through his fingers and spiral down the drain for a moment, and then leans over to splash himself in the face a little violently. His skin immediately prickles at the biting cold. But he feels his simmering arousal flinch away too, so he steels himself and does it again. Even after everything, he won’t get himself off in a Suna estate guesthouse bathroom in the middle of a cocktail party. He won’t. He _won’t_.

And he really doesn’t, although somehow the trip back down the hallway once he’s done dousing his face several times still feels inexplicably like a walk of shame. He hates that he hesitates with one hand on the knob of the bedroom door – tells himself that he’s not the one who should be feeling embarrassed here – opens it resolutely to find Atsumu back in his coat and leaning against the windowsill, dimly backlit by the glow of distant fairy lights.

The two of them are getting rather good at this: facing the other way. Doing up their own buttons.

“I guess we should head back out,” Atsumu says, because he can never let a room stay quiet for too long. “But – uh – what should we do about… y’know?”

It takes Kiyoomi a moment to understand. Atsumu says again, “…Y’know. _That_. It’s still… inside.”

Oh.

Right, yes. Incredibly, he’d almost forgotten that that was still a thing. But he only needs to weigh the question for a fraction of a second: after all, it’s exceedingly obvious what the answer has to be. “Well, of course you’ll have to keep it in.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen a little, and he pushes himself off the sill gingerly. “ _Keep it—_ you mean—no, you’re kiddin’, right?”

Have they been kidding about _anything_ at any point in all of this? “We should avoid getting anything dirty. You can take it out when you get home.” The potential lewdness of the words is clipped by his tone, businesslike and a little hard. “I won’t be turning it on again. Obviously.”

The briefest of battles passes over Atsumu’s face, a visible toss-up over whether he’ll protest or not. When he opens his mouth, though, what leaves it is something else entirely: “That again, huh? That – thing you have, about stuff being… clean.”

“It’s not a ‘thing’,” Kiyoomi snaps, and Atsumu’s quick to throw both hands up in front of him in defence, wary.

“I know, I know,” he says. “I didn’t mean anythin’ by it. Sorry. I was just tryin’ to ask, is this – is the, uh, the no-touchin’ – is it about that, too? Is it ‘cause you find it… squicky?” He winces as the word, but can’t seem to figure out quickly enough how to amend it. He leaves it hanging uneasily in the air between them.

Kiyoomi stares at him, incredulous. “…Miya. Were you not there for what I _just_ did to you?”

“Um.” Colour floods Atsumu’s cheeks, and he reaches up to scrub sheepishly at the back of his neck, shifting his weight. “Right. Yeah. Dumb, okay. I was – well – you _know_. I’m only tryin’ to figure out why I’m not gonna be allowed to touch you.”

Why Atsumu’s not going to be allowed to touch… him.

Kiyoomi feels a headache coming on, curling in like fog from his temples, shackling the ankles of his thoughts so they lag a little as he tries to interrogate whether it’s okay for each one to leave his brain. “…I never said that,” he mutters, and only belatedly recognises that _that_ particular thought probably shouldn’t have been let out. Hm.

“Oh?” There’s nothing flirtatious about the way Atsumu blinks at him now. He seems genuinely confused instead. And maybe somebody else would drop it for now, give Kiyoomi some time to piece his thoughts together, come back with something fully-formed and sanitised. But because it’s Atsumu, Kiyoomi knows he won’t drop it. Because he never drops it.

(Push, prod, squeeze.)

Atsumu blinks at him again. “Wait, so then—what _are_ you sayin’?”

\- + -

What is he saying indeed, Kiyoomi asks himself later, as he stands under a flamingo-shaped tree and watches Atsumu slot himself right back into the centre of attention as though he’d never left it. Well. He thinks he might know what he’s saying, actually, but he wants nothing more than to _never_ have to articulate it, ever. Especially not out loud, and especially not to Miya Atsumu. At least one of them’s got to leave the subtext as subtext – and it’s not like it’s about to be the one with all the subtlety of a bulldozer.

There he goes again now: riling up the Kageyama heir for no reason whatsoever, making moves on the redhead guest beside him that Kiyoomi doesn’t recognise, two birds with one flagrantly flirtatious stone. It’s difficult to tell, sometimes, whether Atsumu does that knowingly, or purely on an instinct that’s coded straight into his neurons.

What’s _less_ difficult to tell is that he thrives on the challenge of it. Six months in Miya Atsumu’s life is more than enough time to figure out that he’s the type to try anything once – the stupider the idea, the better. Maybe it’s a side effect of being ludicrously rich with zero effort. When everything falls into your lap so easily, things are bound to get boring sooner or later. So you set yourself dares. You fabricate obstacles simply for something to clear. You reach for anything forbidden, mostly just because it’s forbidden.

And what’s more forbidden than covert sex with the bodyguard your father hired _specifically_ to keep you out of trouble?

Kiyoomi grimaces. No matter how many times he’s repeated the thought to himself over the past four days, reciting it like a mantra, it never becomes any less ugly. He can only imagine just how much uglier it’d get if he actually caved and let it happen. Or – more accurately – let more of it happen than he already has.

So he stays in the shadow of the flamingo, remote sitting cold and heavy and resolutely untouched in his pocket, trying to watch Atsumu without having to _watch_ him – without noticing every little thing about him. The fact that his hair is still a little mussed at the back of his head where it was flung against the sheets. The way he keeps doing that thing he did back in the bedroom, shifting his weight discreetly from one foot to the other, as though acutely aware of the vibrator still inside him. The leisurely swoop of his neck, the light-flares skirting off his nose, the raucous vanity in his laugh. The wicked skew of his smile.

Kiyoomi notices none of those things. Absolutely and definitively _none_ of them.

Instead he counts cocktails. There’s the rest of the half-glass from earlier – which Atsumu downs within five minutes of returning. Another of the same, followed by a luridly blue one (what on earth do the Suna mixologists _put_ in these?), and then one with a salted rim. There’s a green one he sips at that he decides he doesn’t like – switches with Bokuto, finishes that one instead. The blue one again. Then Kita’s almost-full glass gets nicked while he’s gone to chat to Suna and is chugged to a chorus of cackles. Around them, the evening deepens and darkens; the music swells.

He finally intervenes when Atsumu blindly reaches out at another passing waiter and doesn’t quite manage to get his hands around a glass – tries again – snags one but fumbles it. It’s already empty by the time Kiyoomi reaches the table, and he looks on in undisguised disapproval as Atsumu slams it down onto the table triumphantly.

“That one’s – was – _easy_!” he crows, the starts and ends of his words sloppy, an unmistakeable slur to them. “Wanna ’nother. Grab m'another. K’ro—”

“Better not, Tsumu,” Kuroo says, catching Kiyoomi’s eye from across the table and seizing an equally sloshed Bokuto by the elbow before he can dash off, without explanation, in the direction of the band. “I don’t think your bodyguard would be very happy with me.”

“That’s ‘cause – he’s – ‘s not… happy with _anythin_ ’,” Atsumu informs him seriously. “Not even if I – if I say I’ll—”

Kiyoomi smoothly cuts in before he can incriminate himself – or incriminate _both_ of them, rather – and addresses Kuroo. “I’m surprised you’re not in a… similar state.” Even Kageyama and the unfamiliar ginger guest are very clearly wrecked now, rosy up to their foreheads and stage-whispering to one another with their faces drawn close.

Kuroo offers him a wry smile. “Early morning tomorrow. Investor meeting.”

“Ah, I see.”

For a moment, Kuroo considers him inquisitively, and Kiyoomi has the uneasy sense that he’s being scanned. But he doesn’t let on that he’s noticed it, staying quiet until Kuroo says in a mild tone that gives away nothing: “I’m surprised you let him drink at all, actually.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t flinch, but it’s a close thing. “What do you mean?” he asks coolly, trying to keep any telltale defensiveness out of his expression. “He’s a grown man. Why wouldn’t I?”

At this, Kuroo’s eyebrows jerk upwards. “Because he was feeling sick earlier, right?” he says. “Isn’t that why you took him to lie down?” He delivers it almost like you would a clue on a gameshow question, as though prompting Kiyoomi to catch on, to take the hint. To not slip up now.

Ah – oops. Kiyoomi briskly takes the proffered lifeline. “Well, you saw how he was when we came back.” He regards Kuroo evenly as Bokuto launches himself onto Kageyama, almost bowling them both over. “He was clearly fine, I figured it was just a brief dizzy spell and not worth spoiling his night over.”

Kuroo eyes him a little critically. Kiyoomi almost thinks he’s about to ask something more incisive, more brazen, but – blessedly – he’s interrupted before he can quite get there.

“ _Oooomi?_ Oh-mee.” Atsumu’s brow furrows as he effortfully reworks his tongue, lax with intoxication. “Ohm – Om – _Omi_!” He twists around to give Kiyoomi a proud beam that lands with a divine punch to the gut, and then promptly loses his footing; Kiyoomi reaches out to grab him with both hands. Atsumu’s back hits his chest painfully. “When’d y’get here, Omi?”

Kuroo laughs. “Damn, he’s _hammered_.”

“Alright, Miya,” Kiyoomi sighs, without loosening his hold on both of Atsumu’s arms. “I think it’s about time to go.”

“Go?!” Atsumu’s chin juts out in an extravagant pout. His slur is now tinged with the traces of a whine. “ _Why_?”

“Because you can barely stand on your own right now, that’s why.”

At this, a leer erupts onto Atsumu’s face, and – to Kiyoomi’s disgust – he starts waggling his eyebrows drunkenly. “Y’didn… _didn’t_ … mind that before.”

Okay, that’s _quite_ enough of that, Kiyoomi thinks grimly, as Kuroo’s lips purse with a barely-suppressed grin of amusement. “Right, well, we’ll be off,” Kiyoomi says, curt. “Hope you enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Kuroo’s expression is still a little too knowing for comfort. The grin doesn’t leave his face as he adds nonchalantly, “You too.”

Deciding that any response would be falling right into his overt trap, Kiyoomi instead turns his attention to hauling Atsumu away from the table, moving his hands down to his waist to support him as he totters across the grass towards the stone pathway. Kiyoomi reaches for his earpiece as they step onto it, murmuring a brief instruction for the driver to meet them out front; the car’s waiting in the driveway when they walk out, and Atsumu gets somewhat gracelessly shoved into the backseat. Tonight, Kiyoomi gets into the back with him – “to keep him upright,” he tells the driver, but it’s really mostly because he doesn’t trust the mess of a man to keep his mouth shut for the trip home.

To his intense relief, though, Atsumu conks out almost as soon as they pull out of the estate. He’s a snorer – Kiyoomi had already known that – but he mumbles under his breath too, incoherent half-words that are impossible to make out, soft sounds that only make sense in whatever dream world he’s gracing.

(Halfway home he also has the nerve to let his head drop onto Kiyoomi’s shoulder and nuzzle at the crook of his neck. All the blood in Kiyoomi’s body rushes to gather there at once.)

He manages to lug Atsumu up to the apartment without much issue. It’s not his first time doing it, after all. Atsumu’s barely supporting any of his own weight, slumped comfortably into Kiyoomi’s side, and he stumbles out of his shoes still half-asleep once they’ve made it into the doorway.

Then he swivels around to face Kiyoomi.

Toeing off his own shoes, Kiyoomi regards him warily. “…What now.”

Atsumu’s eyes glow in the mottled mulberry of the dark apartment. He leans a little closer, and Kiyoomi holds his breath as Atsumu’s conspiratorial whisper grazes the skin by the corner of his mouth. “Y’know, Omi, I think that I”—the syllables tumble out haphazardly—“might acute-ally – _actually_ – like you. Like, _like-like_ you. Lots.”

And then he dissolves into giggles while Kiyoomi’s nerve endings ignite.

Kiyoomi forces himself to release a long, slow exhale, even as the floorboards seem to crumble away beneath his feet. “You don’t like me,” he says, his tone deliberate, steadying Atsumu with another fleeting touch to his arm. “You just want to have sex with me.”

Atsumu’s face screws up into a puzzled frown. “Have… sex with’mm… you,” he repeats, and the frown morphs almost cartoonishly into an expression of delight. “ _Yes_! Sex. With you – I wanna. I wanna, Omi, _let’s_.”

He shuffles forward unsteadily with each word, eyes shining with enthusiasm, backing Kiyoomi into the door and tilting his head to pepper his jaw with untidy kisses. Kiyoomi turns his face away hastily before one can land on his lips. “Miya. _No_.”

The kisses reluctantly let up, but Atsumu simply moves to nosing at his neck instead, making a noise of contentment in the back of his throat. Kiyoomi closes his eyes and concentrates every molecule of discipline in his body into quelling the sore thud of his heart. Then he pushes Atsumu away gently, careful not to tip him over.

“You need water,” he breathes, and Atsumu blinks at him, pupils unfocussed. “A lot of water. And then _sleep_.”

"…But," mumbles Atsumu, "but. It's still – there. In there. H-help, _Omi –_ feelsreallygood—"

Kiyoomi digs his fingers a little harder into Atsumu's shoulders and stares at a point on the wall behind him. Counts to five. Counts to ten. Looks back at Atsumu, takes a deep breath, and then says impassively, "I'll walk you to the bathroom. Take it out carefully, Miya, okay?"

He helps Atsumu hobble into the bathroom with a kind of desperate efficiency and then stands leaning against the wall outside, waiting restlessly for the barely-intelligible callout that he's 'finished'. By some miracle of muscle memory, Atsumu has not only managed to safely remove the vibrator on his own but has _cleaned_ it too, and he holds onto the little bullet with a bizarre kind of pride as Kiyoomi herds him into his own room – tugs off his coat – helps him collapse into the nest of his duvet. It's only after he's supervised Atsumu obligingly gulping down two cups of water, left a couple of aspirin tablets and a fresh glass on the bedside table, and turned off all the lights that Kiyoomi finally slinks out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Then he beelines _straight_ to the bathroom.

He’s never fumbled with his suit like this before, but he does now. Shedding the layers one by one, Kiyoomi lurches his way into shower booth and then turns on the water brusquely, letting it jet down at a pressure far harder than it needs to be, beating into his scalp and shoulders and back. His soaked curls droop heavily into his field of view.

And his mind, inevitably, crowds with Atsumu. Atsumu quivering with a cocktail clutched precariously in his hand, struggling not to give himself away. Atsumu gasping under him, nails dragging through the sheets and his hair. Atsumu pressing him to the door – flushed and beaming and soft all over – telling him _I wanna, Omi,_ _let’s_. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Kiyoomi wraps shaky fingers around himself, blindly reaching out to support himself with the other arm. He bites down a groan as the first touch sears through him violently. He won’t last long, not if he’s this sensitised – this strung – this _woozy_ with the steam already filling the air around him. He tightens his grip and strokes hard. Tries not to think about what he’s thinking about. Thinks about it anyway.

He doesn’t quite manage to stifle the moan when he comes, and it rips its way out of his throat, guttural and splintered and embarrassingly loud. Afterwards, he stands there dazed under the relentless rush of water. The wall tiles, suddenly, feel all too cold against his palm.

_I think I might actually like you. Lots._

What a brutal thing to say to him.

“You’re a complete menace, Miya,” he mutters, resentful, and can almost hear Atsumu’s voice pipe up in response from the next room over: _well, then, what does that make you?_

\- + -

“You’ve been avoidin’ me.”

Kiyoomi pauses on his way to the kitchen, the stack of dishes clinking in his hands. “How is that possible?” he says, without looking towards the dining table. “I’m with you all the time. It’s my job.”

Atsumu exhales a little crossly through his nose. “You know what I mean. Why’ve you been eatin’ in your room so much lately?”

Because it’s hard to sit across from you and listen to you complain about avoiding calls from your exploits. Because the light from the window hits you _just so_ at dinnertime when it’s golden and hazy. Because I’ve exclusively jerked off to you in the shower for the past two weeks and I don’t know when I’m going to stop.

Because one of us actually _does_ ‘like-like’ the other. Except it isn’t you.

“I’ve been watching movies while I eat,” Kiyoomi says finally, lowering his dishes into the sink and turning on the tap. Atsumu crinkles his nose dubiously.

“Why don’t you just watch ‘em here?”

“…I need my charger. I’m not avoiding you, Miya.”

“Okay, you’re not,” Atsumu says agreeably, his tone light amid the sound of running water. “Take me to the corner store, then.”

Kiyoomi frowns, turning to look at him at last. Atsumu has his chin propped in his hand as usual, gazing at him intently from the table, something impertinent flashing in his eyes already.

“We don’t need anything from the corner store,” says Kiyoomi slowly.

“I do.”

“What is it?”

“Take me and you’ll find out,” grins Atsumu. “C’mon, Omi. Otherwise I’ll just go by myself and get mugged.”

With a terse sigh, Kiyoomi turns off the tap and puts both hands down, a little forcefully, on the edge of the sink. “ _Fine_. Put on some actual pants then. And we’re making it quick.”

Or so he says – but Atsumu insists on an insanely slow pace as they walk down together to the end of the street, Kiyoomi putting a calculated foot of space between them. The last slices of the setting sun stain the pavement with wine; it must’ve rained earlier, a thin layer still coating the ground, spots of light skittering across it. The air holds the faint warning of another spring storm. They probably, Kiyoomi thinks vaguely, should’ve brought an umbrella.

“I said somethin’ that night, didn’t I? When I got plastered at Suna’s.”

Kiyoomi says nothing and keeps walking. Maybe if he pretends he didn’t hear—

“I don’t remember gettin’ home.” Atsumu kicks aside a pebble casually and pulls closed the old varsity jacket he’s thrown on top of his pyjama shirt. “And since then you’ve been avoidin’ me. It’s not that hard to put two and two together – even for me.” He sneaks a sideways glance at Kiyoomi and smiles sheepishly, not subtle in the least. “But you still left me that aspirin, so it can’t’ve been _that_ bad. Right?”

He’s not sure exactly what it is that possesses him to say it, but all of a sudden it’s quite simply impossible not to, as though a plug in his thoughts has been tugged free against his will. “I suppose that’s a matter of opinion. You did tell me you _like-like_ me. Does that count as being ‘that bad’?”

The smile skids rapidly off Atsumu’s face, and then, without warning, he stops walking altogether. Kiyoomi stops too and turns somewhat laboriously to look at him. His senses have all switched onto high alert. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, mostly just for something to do with them.

Atsumu’s voice sounds strangled when he speaks. “I’m guessin' you said no, then.”

“Obviously.” It comes out a little more harshly than he’d intended it, serrated and stony, cold. Atsumu huffs out a slightly self-deprecating laugh in response.

“Right,” he says, and Kiyoomi _must_ be imagining the twinge of hurt in his voice. “…Obviously.”

Kiyoomi sighs. Does he really need to clarify this? Is Atsumu’s ego so fragile that he’d take this personally somehow? “Yes, Miya, _obviously_ , because you didn’t mean it. Don’t read into things.”

Strangely, Atsumu throws him a look of genuine bemusement at this. “What? What d’you mean, ‘I didn’t mean it’?”

“Precisely that. You didn’t mean it. You were drunk, and trying to be funny.”

“What – I wasn’t – _tryin’ to be funny_ ,” Atsumu splutters.

“Alright,” Kiyoomi amends sharply, irritation sparking at the nonplussed expression still on Atsumu’s face, which is surely either a cruel attempt at a joke or a sign that he really is an _actual_ moron. “Trying to get into my pants, then.”

Atsumu corrects him with unexpected vehemence. “ _No_. Tryin’ to _confess_ to you. Why’re you makin’ it sound so – shady?”

“You were not trying to confess to me, Miya, so you can drop that right now.” He squeezes the words out from behind clenched teeth. He hates absolutely everything about this situation. It’s overwhelming, being put on the spot like this, having to go through the motions of a confrontation before he’s had the chance to think it all through, to prepare himself.

Why are they doing this now. _Why._

“Look,” he says, with immense difficulty. “I have nothing against you living your life like… like the entire point is just to try as many things as possible. And I know that you – I’m sure you’d enjoy being able to say that you talked your bodyguard into sleeping with you. But—”

He cuts himself off when Atsumu recoils visibly, as though Kiyoomi had physically struck him. “Wait – _what_?”

Kiyoomi senses, with a kind of looming trepidation, that he’s going about this all wrong. But why, when he’s just putting into words what they both know to be true? On what grounds does Atsumu get to look so _wounded_ , like Kiyoomi’s leaving lacerations all over him, trickling blood onto the watery mirror of the street?

He says it anyway: “I’m not a bucket list item, Miya.”

“Yeah, I _know_ that,” Atsumu bites out, and Kiyoomi’s never heard him so plainly agitated. “God. I know. You’re not. Of course you’re not.”

And then, in a much smaller voice, though both of them still hear it loud and clear: “What d’you – what d’you _take_ me for?”

For once, Kiyoomi feels lost for words. The hush that settles between them is brittle and sour.

Something gathers behind Atsumu’s eyes then, and he straightens abruptly, eyes shuttering off and stance closing all at once. Kiyoomi watches it happen in slight disconcertion: he hadn’t even realised they’d been wide open. That they’d been wide open for _him_.

“Alright, well,” says Atsumu, but it’s wrong, it doesn’t sound like him. He turns away and starts trudging back in the direction they’d come from. “I’m goin’ home.”

“What about the thing from the corner store?” Kiyoomi says, lamely.

“I don’t need it anymore.” Atsumu doesn’t look back – but he does pause briefly when he’s no more than two metres away, head bowing a little as he shuffles his sneakers against the pavement. “Sorry, if I – ever made you feel like that’s all you were. And to be clear – you weren’t. You _aren’t_.”

The slant of Atsumu’s bent neck is tense: tense, and patently unhappy. On the far horizon, the promised spring storm is already rolling in, thunderclouds collecting like a murky velvet curtain. The very ground seems to pulse with nervous anticipation.

 _Oh_ , Kiyoomi realises then, the blow of it crawling sluggishly from his toes all the way up to his heart. His mind feels dazedly vacant as it seeps into his skull too. _Were you – not kidding after all?_

He hears himself call out into the silence before he even knows he’s decided to do it. “I’m… sorry.” And then, after just a breath of hesitation: “Atsumu.”

 _That_ has Atsumu whirling around, eyes wide and disbelieving, searching Kiyoomi’s face in a quick once-over. Whatever it is he finds there must startle him; something in his expression shifts minutely as it registers.

The pavement stretches between them, endless. Kiyoomi unthinkingly closes the distance in three strides. He’s near enough now to make out the faint dusting of freckles running across the tops of Atsumu’s cheeks.

“…I was – first,” he lets out, and the instant mortification that pinches through him does nothing to stem the next words from spilling over. “I liked you first. From the start, actually. When I met you. I almost quit on the spot.” He sucks in a breath – tries to slow down a little. “And then I just got extremely good at hiding it, instead.”

He’s voicing things he quite literally thought would never see the light of day. And why? To what end, exactly? He thinks – maybe – he might be entreating Atsumu to open up again, telling him he won’t miss it this time around, that he just didn't _know_ , that he’d never even imagined it possible. But how to go about undoing the damage he’s already done—?

Kiyoomi gropes about in the dark for the closest thing to the right words that he can find. He has no idea whether he's actually got them when he speaks. 

“I got so very good at it. The hiding. But then _you_ ”—his lungs tingle unnervingly in his chest at the force of the word—“you just _had_ to go and make it even more impossible.”

Atsumu stares at him, speechless, mouth agape. Thunder rumbles faintly in the distance.

"…Didn't you?" Kiyoomi tacks on, quietly. “ _Atsumu_?”

A garbled noise of bewilderment escapes Atsumu’s chest, and then all at once he’s stumbling forward, fisting a hand in Kiyoomi’s T-shirt, yanking him down hard. Kiyoomi goes to him. He goes to him unresisting – and this time – _this_ time – they meet right in the middle.

Atsumu kisses him roughly, as though to say _I’m still mad at you._ Kiyoomi lets him do what he likes: _fair enough, it was a little mean_ _._ Atsumu still tastes sweet, anyway, and his lips are still eager, and the fingers he's got curled into the cotton of Kiyoomi's shirt hang on like letting go is the last thing he wants to do, so – really – it’ll all probably be okay in the end.

He swipes his tongue across Atsumu’s bottom lip and then bites down on it, drawing a pretty sound from him that goes straight to Kiyoomi’s gut. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth emanating from Atsumu’s entire body; even more so of the soft heat of his mouth. But they’re only a five-minute walk away from home this time, he registers with a surge of gratitude, not in some random bathroom, not in the middle of a garden. So – albeit with some effort – he tears himself away, trying not to groan at the way Atsumu lifts himself onto his toes to follow his lips instinctively. _Five_ minutes away, he reminds himself firmly – three, if they half-jog it.

They make it in three. Atsumu’s all over him in the lift up, his fingers dipping impulsively past the waistband of Kiyoomi’s pants to brush the skin of his hips, making his head spin uncontrollably. Kiyoomi's the one who has to struggle in frustration with the lock of the apartment while Atsumu winds his arms around him from behind and mouths hotly at the back of his neck, entirely unhelpful.

He keys in the wrong code twice. Atsumu nibbles on his earlobe. “You good there, Omi?”

“Please shut up,” Kiyoomi deadpans, and Atsumu slyly tells him, “Only if you make me,” and then he’s reaching around to press in the keycode without even _looking_ at it, and the door swings open under the push of his hand at fucking _last_.

Atsumu’s bedroom is further from the entrance, so they naturally end up in Kiyoomi’s instead. Their jackets lie discarded in a heap on the floor somewhere and are probably wrinkling as they speak. It’s a little hard to care, though, when you've got a flushed Miya Atsumu on your bed, shirt raised just enough to reveal a sliver of his stomach, his navel, the top of a happy-trail disappearing into his sweatpants. Kiyoomi stands a little way away from the bed and just drinks in the sight of him for a moment, his own chest heaving.

God. He’s so hot. He’s so stupidly, dangerously, irresponsibly hot, and Kiyoomi’s wanted him for so, so long, and now he's actually going to let himself take and take and _take_.

“You really are going to get me fired,” Kiyoomi mutters a little remorsefully, and watches a smug grin flare across Atsumu’s face.

Stepping closer to the bed, Kiyoomi leans over and braces himself on both arms, aligning their hips and then rocking down. The effect is instantaneous: Atsumu moans, Kiyoomi shivers, and they both reflexively thrust to chase the feeling again.

Kiyoomi ducks his head to lick a bruise into Atsumu’s neck. Atsumu’s legs wrap themselves around Kiyoomi’s waist, urging him closer, the flimsy fabric of their pants doing little to dull the sensation of their erections against one another. Kiyoomi sucks harder at Atsumu’s clavicle to stifle the frankly embarrassing noises in his throat threatening to make themselves known. It backfires spectacularly when it draws a breathless whine out of Atsumu instead, the sound flooding straight into the heady fog of Kiyoomi’s arousal.

And then – to make matters worse – Atsumu buries his fingers in Kiyoomi’s hair and _clenches_. Kiyoomi’s elbows almost buckle beneath him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he grits out. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu pants, twisting his face to give Kiyoomi more room at his neck. “Yeah – _please_ – let’s. Want you to—”

Kiyoomi doesn’t wait to hear the rest, shuffling down onto his knees to nimbly undo the drawstring of Atsumu’s sweatpants and pull them off in one go. Underneath, he’s wearing the boxers he always wears around the apartment, while eating and watching TV and doing work like he doesn’t know, or care, about what the sight of him does to Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi’s mouth waters at the thought of wrecking Atsumu while he’s still _in_ the boxers, so that he can never laze around in them again without thinking about this, but – for the time being – he tugs them off too. That particular idea will have to wait.

Atsumu brings his legs onto the bed and props them up shamelessly, giving Kiyoomi a full view of _everything_. Swallowing thickly, Kiyoomi reaches over to pull open his bedside drawer and fishes out a half-empty bottle of lube – flicks the cap open – coats his fingers carefully. Brings one close to graze at Atsumu’s hole. Watches in fascination as it flutters under his touch.

A broken sort of half-whimper comes from the bed. “Just – put it in,” Atsumu demands, “please. Omi. _Hurry._ ”

Kiyoomi opens his mouth to make some sort of jibe about his patience, but the start of his sentence is buried by a loud rap on the front door. They freeze; Kiyoomi pauses with his finger still hovering at the entrance of Atsumu’s hole, and he’s pretty sure both of them momentarily stop breathing. Two seconds of tight silence tick by.

And then, from outside, they hear an unmistakeable voice waft in: “Oi, Tsumu, open the door!”

Atsumu lets out a horrified squeak. Neither of them moves.

“And don’t you even _try_ ignorin' me.” Even through the door and several walls, the undisguised impatience in Miya Osamu’s voice is clear. “Y’left your Snapchat location on, stupid. I know you’re in there.”

Above him, Atsumu flings both his hands up to cover his rapidly reddening face. He doesn’t close his legs. Kiyoomi gingerly extracts himself from between them, and then gets to his feet – with some difficulty, given his, er, state – to open his wardrobe, pull his silk bathrobe off a hanger, and toss it towards the bed.

“Here,” he says, bluntly. “Aren’t you going out?”

The reply comes almost inaudibly after a moment of delay, muffled by two hands. “…for fuck’s sake. I just. Want you _in_ me already, oh my _God_. Why does the universe hate me?”

Kiyoomi forces himself to respond in as neutral a tone as possible, tamping down on the flicker of lust the admission sends skittering through him. “It’ll just have to wait.”

“We’ve been waitin’ for _ages_! The level of sexual tension we’ve got goin’ on at this point is seriously unfunny, Omi.”

“Yes,” he agrees, wholeheartedly, “but also, your brother’s outside.”

Atsumu makes a miserable sound that would probably be amusing in literally any other circumstance, and then hauls himself off the bed, fumbling to get the bathrobe on with shaky fingers. Kiyoomi watches for a moment before stepping forward wordlessly to help him with the tie. Mostly for his own sanity, he chooses not to comment on the way Atsumu’s expression softens as he moves his own hands out of the way, letting Kiyoomi fiddle around with the silk.

Once the tie’s been secured, and he’s decently covered enough for a friendly familial chat, Atsumu shuffles out into the living room with palpable unenthusiasm coming off him in waves. Kiyoomi goes to stand by his closed bedroom door and listens somewhat tensely as Osamu is let into the apartment.

Atsumu doesn’t even bother masking his annoyance. “What d’you want?” he says, stroppily.

“Drop the attitude. What’s up with _you_? I brought us somethin’ from dad, he wants us to share it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“I haven’t even said what it is yet, ya dunce.”

“Don’t care. And couldn’t y’have _called_ before comin’?”

Kiyoomi doesn't have to see him to know that Osamu must be squinting. “Since when do _we_ call each other before droppin’ by?”

“Since I said so!”

“What kinda _bonehead_ logic—”

All at once Osamu abruptly stops talking, and some magical intuition in Kiyoomi’s stomach immediately twists with foreboding. He hears a heavy footstep on the living room floorboards. On the other side of the door, Atsumu clears his throat, the sound very loud and very nervous in the sudden quiet.

“Hey, Tsumu," Osamu says slowly. "How about we forget about that for a second, and y’answer this one for me instead?”

There’s a beat before Atsumu speaks again. “Answer _what_.”

He sounds cagey and defensive by any measure. There’s no way that his brother, of all people, will miss that. Kiyoomi closes his eyes; he feels his heartrate kick up a notch.

And then it just grinds to a halt altogether as he hears the question that next leaves Osamu’s mouth.

“…Since when did you start lettin’ people leave _marks_ on you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …i swear i ship these two. i swear. i do not in fact hate them. well i hate them a bit. but mostly i love them & i swear on my life,,, The Thing You Are Actually Here For is on its way,,,,,
> 
> leave a comment telling me how much out of 10 u 🥰🥰 𝓱𝓪𝓽𝓮 🥰🥰 me for leaving out the good stuff entirely from this chapter
> 
> (also, if u are enjoying this fic, a [retweet](https://twitter.com/soeunaa99/status/1318760402759503874?s=20) or [reblog](https://soeunaa.tumblr.com/post/632555770480934912/i-left-a-taste-in-your-mouth-chapter-3) to help me spread the bodyguard!sakusa agenda would be v much appreciated!)


	4. i'm the worst habit that you ever had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “You want to say that again, Miya?”
>> 
>> “I thought it was ‘Atsumu’ now."
>> 
>> The fingers around his wrists tighten a little and he feels, with a start, Sakusa bending over him, his linen shirt grazing the layer of silk separating him from the skin of Atsumu’s back. This time his voice comes from far closer; it tickles at the delicate skin of Atsumu’s left ear. “Only when you’re behaving yourself.”
> 
> pssst quick quick pwp tag!! you're on now! get back here!!! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi: this is mostly sex
> 
> ~~ha ha ha funny how i say that as if that is not precisely what u are all here for~~
> 
> many thanks to my absolutely wonderful and lovely friends who beta-read this chapter in its various stages of unhingedness. in recognition of ur efforts i have selected my favourite google doc comment that u left me, presented here out of context bc i felt like it:  
> \- [kaylee](https://twitter.com/yaejinie) \- "can we get an f in the chat for atsumu's attempt at lying this man is getting buried alive"  
> \- [eska](https://twitter.com/Eskarina69) \- "tsumu has a lot of balls for a sub but i respect the hustle"  
> \- [sumo](https://twitter.com/MlYAHINAS) \- "osamu. i like how he is a dick like that and shit"  
> love u all xoxo
> 
> ( chapter title from [this](https://open.spotify.com/track/6JvXtawpLCjSQhYAy2UgvL?si=6k3D2Mn0TMi5gNcLeIJrQw) )

It’s at moments like these, Atsumu thinks dimly as a slow, prickling wave of horror spreads to the ends of all the finest capillaries in his body, it’s at moments like these that he finds himself – briefly, yes, but still very, _very_ intensely – wishing that he had just been an only child.

Or – maybe – at least that his twin brother had been born a tad less perceptive.

“…What’re you even talkin’ about?” he says, a split second before his silence nicks from ‘unremarkable’ into ‘fishy’ territory. “I don’t… _not_ let people mark me.”

Osamu fixes him with an extremely unimpressed look. “You literally told me you don’t, because you always want to look – quotin’ here – _unattached and available_.”

…Hm. Did he – did he say that? Did he actually say those words? Okay. Okay, yeah, maybe he did. Wow. Right. So – maybe what he _actually_ wishes, then, is that he would learn to keep his own damn mouth shut sometimes.

“So who is it, then?” Osamu asks. “The one who converted you to ‘attached and unavailable’? Anyone I know? Am I gettin’ introduced anytime soon?”

His voice is so _loud_. God. Atsumu winces and barely stops himself from glancing furtively in the direction of Sakusa’s bedroom. “No need t’yell, Christ,” he hisses instead, only to regret the words immediately when Osamu’s eyebrows twitch at their inadvertent divulgence.

“Ahh, okay,” he says, craning his neck to look past Atsumu, “so they’re here right now. Ew – were you two in the middle of doin’ it? Are they still in your—”

But at the exact same moment that Osamu does, Atsumu recognises, with mounting dread, that the door of his own room is wide open to pitch black. It’s – very unmistakeably empty. Osamu looks at him once, inquisitive, and then his gaze flicks towards Sakusa’s bedroom instead. In the dim apartment, the light spilling out of the crack at the bottom of his door feels stark and unambiguous.

Eyebrows climbing ever higher, Osamu turns back to look at him. He opens his mouth.

Atsumu cuts in quickly, “It’s not what y’think.”

“…I haven’t said anythin’ yet.”

“Right, well, there’s nothin’ to be said.”

“Uh huh. Is that so?” Osamu gives him a quick once-over through suspicious eyes, taking a step away from him to survey him from head to toe. “Bet that bathrobe’s not even yours. You don’t buy silks in that colour. But y’know who I’m thinkin’ has a complexion that _would_ look really nice in – what even is that – forest green?”

“Samu – if you don’t shut up right now—”

“Look, if _you’re_ not gonna ’fess up to it, I’ll just ask him personally,” Osamu says flatly, already moving for the bedroom. Atsumu lunges to stop him before he gets a hand on the doorknob.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he blusters. “You’re bein’ stupid. Besides, he’s – sleepin’.”

With what is almost comically horrible timing, however, this is precisely the moment at which the shower in Sakusa’s ensuite turns on. The distinctive sound of gushing water joins the golden light in leaking incriminatingly from the crack in the bedroom door.

Atsumu clears his throat. “…Showerin’. Busy. Whatever.”

The silent look Osamu throws him now is almost pitying, as though he’s marvelling at how pathetically executed this whole attempted evasion is – a tactical failure in every possible sense. It doesn’t stop him, though, from mercilessly dumping the bag in his hands on the dining table and pulling out a chair to settle into: “I’m not in a hurry. I’ll wait.” He pulls a long, flat box out of the bag, opening its baby-blue lid as Atsumu stands by Sakusa’s bedroom door and sweats buckets out of his palms. “Want one? French macarons. From dad.”

And, God, Atsumu could just _throttle_ him. No, you absolute asshat, he wants to scream across the dining table. Nobody wants your damn French macarons – would you just _leave_ – for fuck’s sake.

He clearly knows exactly what he’s doing, too. There’s no point pretending any longer: Osamu’s figured it out, no doubt about it, and he’s refusing to budge solely because he wants to stir shit once Sakusa leaves the shower. Okay. So it looks like it’ll boil down to a battle of stubbornness, then. Nothing new about that.

Atsumu lets out a slow exhale and carefully considers his options, trying to quell the somewhat confusing blend of dismay and annoyance and sexual frustration sloshing around in his liver. He could just deny everything and hope Sakusa takes the same approach – even though it’s questionable whether Osamu will even buy it. Maybe he can pass it off as a one-time thing, which – well – it’s not technically untrue. They haven’t had sex multiple times, not yet: though not for lack of trying, _Christ_. Would a ‘one-time thing’ still get Sakusa fired, though? Probably, Atsumu admits to himself, watching Osamu with extreme resentment as he sandwiches together three macarons and puts the entire stack in his mouth at once.

Just as he’s considering the practicalities of option three – physically kicking Osamu out, maybe dragging him by the ankle and tossing his shoes out after him – the door to Sakusa’s bedroom clicks open. They both immediately look up towards the sound. Atsumu didn’t think it possible at this point, but his palms get even sweatier, his stomach roiling with a sudden uptick of nerves.

Sakusa walks out of the bedroom not in the old T-shirt and sweats he was _definitely_ wearing earlier, but in a linen button-down and slacks, his feet and ankles bare. His hair’s very visibly been towelled down in a haste, damp curls skimming his eyelashes and loose droplets still gathering at their ends. He glances at the table. A flicker of impressively believable surprise crosses his expression.

“Osamu-san,” he says, tone polite, giving nothing away. “Hello. I thought I heard someone come in. How are you? Been up to anything interesting lately?”

“Oh, nothin’ much on my end. But how about _you_ , Sakusa-san? Enjoy your shower?” Osamu picks up another macaron and offers him a mild smile as he bites delicately into its edge. “A cold one, I’m guessin’?”

Atsumu inhales his entire mouthful of saliva and promptly chokes on it. Sakusa’s jaw shifts.

“…I’m not sure,” Sakusa begins, and then pauses, as though wavering at a crossroads. His tone is as meticulously controlled as always when he continues. “I’m not quite sure what you mean by that.”

Before Osamu has the chance to derail the conversation any further, Atsumu whirls on his heel to storm over to him, his shoulders tight with agitated determination. “You’ve had half the macarons, haven’t you?” he demands, pointing an accusing finger at his nose. “And the other half’s mine. Y’can _go_ now. Bye.”

“That’s no way to treat your brother, Tsumu,” says Osamu, batting his finger away. “ _Especially_ not a brother that you owe now, don’t ya think?”

“Huh? What would I owe _you_ for?!”

Osamu looks calmly from him to Sakusa, and then back at him, the movement of his eyes incredibly drawn-out and deliberate. “For not tellin’ dad.” He doesn’t verbalise the _obviously, stupid_ , but Atsumu hears it in his voice anyway.

Neither he nor Sakusa says a word. Osamu considers the half-eaten box of macarons and then gathers it up with a sort of smug self-assuredness. “I like these,” he comments casually. “I’ll be takin’ the rest. Bye, Tsumu. Bye, Sakusa-san. Nice t’see you.”

He doesn’t wait for either of them to respond, leaving them standing wordlessly outside Sakusa’s bedroom door as he picks up the now re-bagged macarons and goes to slip his shoes back on. “Oh,” he says, straightening once his laces are done up, “y’still owe me, by the way, Tsumu. Plus interest. _Don’t_ go sayin’ you can’t remember when I cash it in.”

And then, with just a brief, nonchalant glance back at them once, Osamu tugs on the door handle, hitches the macaron bag a little further up his forearm, and walks obligingly out of the apartment without any further prompting from either of them.

The door swings shut behind him. The brief slice of lurid hallway light narrows and then vanishes altogether, plunging them back into near total shadow. Atsumu glances at Sakusa – can’t quite make out the lines of his face properly in the dark. He feels oddly nervous as he waits for the right moment to say something to break the silence.

Sakusa turns away before any such moment ends up arriving, pushing open his bedroom door and disappearing past it. He doesn’t invite Atsumu back in to join him – not in words – but he does leave the door carefully ajar, just an inch of deliberate space, stopping it before it closes in on itself. That’s enough. It’s enough for Atsumu to know the invitation’s there.

He allows himself just a very, _very_ brief moment to gather himself before following Sakusa into the bedroom, his nerves still creaking a little. Only the same desk lamp from earlier is still on. It washes everything with a suffuse honeyed light: the bedsheets, the bookshelf, and the elegant lines of Sakusa’s back, his shoulderblades shifting under thin linen as he stands turned away from the door and rummages gingerly through his open desk drawers.

Atsumu approaches slowly, carefully. Doesn’t touch him yet. Not before he can see his face. “…Omi?”

Sakusa gives no indication that he’s even heard, straightening as he finally fishes something out of the drawer – a creamy envelope, unsealed, from which he pulls a letter of some kind that he unfolds neatly and lays down on the desk. Atsumu examines it with unconcealed curiosity as Sakusa reaches for a pen.

It’s only as Sakusa uncaps the pen and leans back down to note down the date that it hits Atsumu what it is he’s actually watching happen. Eyes widening, he flicks his gaze up a little to examine Sakusa’s expression, hunts out a quirk or crease that’ll reveal that this is nothing more than a stupid gag, even as his better sense reminds him that that’s not like Sakusa at all.

He says in a rush, “Hey – that isn’t—?”

“My letter of resignation, yes. It is, actually.” Sakusa’s signing his name now. It’s small and fine and crowded – tucked painstakingly into as little space as possible – almost exactly like Atsumu would’ve imagined Sakusa’s signature to look. Sakusa’s signature. His signature, to officiate his _resignation_.

Sudden, instinctive apprehension shoots through Atsumu like a spear through water. “But – Samu said he wouldn’t tell,” he blurts out, a ringing sense of urgency nicking at his ability to pace himself a little better. He seizes at straws, says whatever the hell comes into his head _._ “I know he’s super annoyin’, but he’s not the type to break promises. Honest. You don’t have to go as far as _quittin’_ on the spot—”

Sakusa puts down the pen and looks up from the signed letter, his expression set. “Whether or not your father finds out, it’s true that these – developments – have made it quite difficult for me to do my job and properly look out for you.”

He can finally see Sakusa’s face in its entirety now, straight-on, softly lit by the desk lamp: there’s no trace of dishonesty there. _God_. He’s not actually serious, isn’t he? Should Atsumu have – seen this coming? His stomach is sinking heavily, his heart thudding somewhere in his throat, a vague sort of alarm starting to settle in earnest now. He has no clue what he’s supposed to say.

But then, unexpectedly, it’s Sakusa that speaks again: “…in an official capacity.”

Atsumu’s train of thought grinds to a halt. He blinks at Sakusa in bewilderment. Takes a second to make sure he’s grasping the subtext correctly here. 

“If you’ll,” says Sakusa, looking slightly pained, as though each word is requiring all of his attention to place, “have me. I can still be here for you in an – unofficial. Capacity.”

It’s sort of incredible how quickly Atsumu’s looming panic gets chased away by the onslaught of relief that this sentence prompts. He tries to mask his immediate delight, figuring he has plenty of time to revel in that later – at some point when he can bask in his glee privately, without having Sakusa know he’s doing it.

Trying to contain his smile, he quips instead, “Well, how do I know you’re actually any good, Omi? You haven’t been doin’ all that much actual _bodyguardin’_ , if I do say so myself.”

Sakusa narrows his eyes at him, tilting his head to one side. “…Excuse me, what?”

“Y’know. You haven’t done much rescuin’, or anythin’.” The smile is threatening to make itself known now – except there’s something additionally suggestive trying to edge its way into it. Now that he’s not busy freaking out, Atsumu’s suddenly hyper-conscious of the soft brush of the silk against his bare skin, and the knowledge that it’s _Sakusa’s_ silk. Does he wear this when he’s alone in his room? He’s certainly never come out of the room wearing it – Atsumu would remember that.

He drags his gaze up Sakusa’s torso as overtly as he can and meets his eyes at the end of it. “You’ve really mostly just been hookin’ up with me. D’you even _know_ how to do bodyguard stuff, Omi? Hm?”

For a long, silent moment, Sakusa simply holds his taunting gaze, his face inscrutable. Atsumu uncertainly finds himself wondering whether he actually might’ve gone too far, and hastily opens his mouth to retract the jibe.

But then, in one blurred motion that Atsumu barely has any time to register, Sakusa jerkily sweeps aside the resignation letter and pen, reaches out for him with both hands, and whirls him around, slamming him down chest-first into the desk and locking his arms behind his own back. Atsumu doesn’t dare say a word – huffs out an uneven breath of surprise that mists the lacquered cherrywood of the desk. His wrists are perfectly secured in Sakusa’s cool grip.

From behind him comes the lofty question: “You want to say that again, Miya?”

The initial shock of the move having worn off him, Atsumu smirks audaciously at that. “I thought it was ‘Atsumu’ now,” he tosses out.

The fingers around his wrists tighten a little and he feels, with a start, Sakusa bending over him, his linen shirt grazing the layer of silk separating him from the skin of Atsumu’s back. This time his voice comes from far closer; it tickles at the delicate skin of Atsumu’s left ear. “Only when you’re behaving yourself.” He waits for a startled shiver to rush down Atsumu’s spine before adding in a low voice dripping with deliberately amplified contempt, “It _is_ what I was hired to do, after all. Make sure that _you_ … behave yourself.”

He punctuates the phrase by curling his other hand around Atsumu’s waist and tugging the silk ribbon of the bathrobe free in one pull. The gesture steals all of the air straight out of Atsumu’s lungs. He tries to focus on the press of the desk against his cheek, against his chest; any sensation to ground himself. But he can’t quite manage to. He’s painfully aware that he’s already half-hard again.

So instead he just mumbles into the heady silence, “…Are you gonna fuck me now?”

He feels Sakusa’s breath hitch against his ear – feels his grip momentarily slip as he straightens back into a standing position. Atsumu pretends it hasn’t loosened enough for him to wriggle his wrists free, and instead twists just his neck to look back at Sakusa over his left shoulder. Sakusa isn’t looking at him, though; his eyes linger on the resignation letter he’d flicked aside earlier. He looks a little caught – half-pensive, half-turned on.

“We should probably,” he says, with a kind of laboured deliberateness, “talk about everything first.”

At that, Atsumu screws his eyes closed, and then opens them somewhat incredulously. “Omi. Seriously, I’m not kidding. If you – try to talk about our _feelings_ right now – I’ll punch you. I will.”

Tearing his gaze away from the letter at last, Sakusa arches a patronising eyebrow at him. “Right, because you’re _very_ well-placed to do that right now.”

“I’m serious!”

“You’re quick to say that word.” Sakusa knows what he’s doing, and the baiting, the stalling, is intentional – mostly. But there’s a trace of genuine uncertainty there, too; buried almost enough to be missed, and yet not quite managing it. “Are you, though? Serious?”

And – look – _okay_. If Atsumu’s being totally honest, he knows this probably could be resolved pretty quickly with just a short and sweet chat about it right now. He’s not dumb enough to miss the subtext here. All he has to do is reassure Sakusa that his feelings aren’t anything flighty, that he’ll try his very best to navigate this thing properly, that they can work out some of the finer details as they go. That’s all. He knows that’s all it’d take. But. _But_.

But right now, each one of those words feels like it would add another millennium to the already frankly insane stretch of sexual tension between them. And he really doesn’t think he could survive that. Honest to God. He might just die.

So instead, knowing fully well that he’s being needlessly insufferable, what he says is this: “Oh, I promise you. I’m dead serious.” He lets Sakusa wait for one ambiguous, suspended second before he adds, tangling the words into a soft exhale that spills headily onto the cherrywood, “…I’m bein’ ever so serious, _Sakusa-san_.”

He hears the razor edge of the breath that Sakusa sucks in at once behind him, and stifles his grin into the desk. _Bingo_.

“…Just so you know. We’re still talking about it afterwards,” murmurs Sakusa, almost inaudibly. When Atsumu only makes a vague, noncommittal noise in response that could mean anything – just for the sake of being obnoxious at this point – he adds, in an apathetic tone so entirely dissonant with what he’s saying that it sends an exhilarated shiver zipping through Atsumu, “Assuming you’re still in a state to talk by then, of course.”

He leans back down and begins methodically pressing kisses along the length of Atsumu’s spine, his breath dampening the silk between them. His pace is – perhaps as expected – maddeningly slow. Atsumu grinds out without turning to look at him, “Hurry _up_ , Omi. Yes, yes, lovely foreplay, very sweet of you, consider me sufficiently romanced and get something _in_ me.”

He doesn’t have to see Sakusa to imagine the expression on his face. “Do you ever shut up?” Sakusa says, into the small of Atsumu’s back. He must be on the floor now, on his knees probably; but his grip around Atsumu’s wrists is as fixed as ever.

Atsumu squirms, almost wishing he could see what Sakusa’s doing. He feels a careful hand lift the bottom of the bathrobe up onto his back. “Y’know, Omi, that’s really no way to speak to your— _ah_!”

A heated breath, right against his hole; his voice falters unwittingly. Then Sakusa’s finally releasing his wrists and shuffling around behind him, uncapping something – oh, yes, they’d left the lube tossed on the bed earlier, hadn’t they, clever them – and the slick sounds of him warming it between his fingers again is dangerously enticing. Anticipation whirling in the pit of his stomach, Atsumu lifts his now-freed hands up to cling onto the desk. He notices with an embarrassing flurry of desire that his wrists are a little pink from Sakusa’s hold. It’s – it’s not that weird to find that sexy, right?

Before he has the chance to even fully process the question, though, it’s knocked right out of him by the sudden sensation of a gel-slicked finger tracing his hole – just once – and then slipping right past the taut ring of muscle without warning. Atsumu stills completely, his inhalation caught in his throat. The finger slides deeper inside him. He feels Sakusa’s knuckle brush against the skin that rims his hole. He chokes.

“Yes?” says Sakusa coolly. “That’s no way to speak to my what?”

He slowly drags his finger out before Atsumu can reply, then abruptly drives it back in all at once and proceeds to massage at his walls in measured circles, firm, leisurely. Sakusa’s fingers are _long_ , maybe longer than anyone else Atsumu’s been with. Even the single one he’s got inside right now feels like it’s buried in there _incredibly_ deeply.

“My what, Atsumu?” Sakusa prompts again. He’s got the tip of a second finger edging at Atsumu’s entrance now, not quite dipping past. Almost – _almost_.

Atsumu screws his eyes closed and exhales tightly. “…Your _boss_ ,” he manages to get out.

Sakusa hums at that. “For one,” he says calmly, and presses the second finger in now too, unhurried and cautious, “ _you’re_ not my boss.”

He’s got both fingers in a knuckle deep. Precisely at the right depth – and yet, agonisingly, pressing at every square centimetre _except_ his prostate. He grazes close by twice, skimming over it with a barely-there touch. But he doesn’t ever once make proper contact. As though on purpose.

No: definitely on purpose, Atsumu corrects himself immediately, curling his fingers into the table in vexation. It’s definitely on purpose. But he won’t give Sakusa the gratification of begging for it. Not after everything.

“Secondly,” Sakusa continues offhandedly, sliding his other hand up Atsumu’s thigh and reaching around past fluttering silk to palm his stomach, mindful to avoid brushing his cock – because of course, really. “ _I’m_ the one who has to deal with your smug commentary seven days a week. Aren’t I?”

His hand slips away from Atsumu’s stomach and settles at the soft skin of his perineum. The fingers he’s got inside Atsumu pause right above his prostate. Atsumu’s breath is coming in shallow huffs now, his frustration climbing by the second. _Don’t beg. Don’t you dare. Don’t even open your mouth—_

“…Though admittedly, you don’t seem to have very much to say now.”

The self-satisfaction in Sakusa’s voice is thinly veiled. Catching it even in his current state, Atsumu instinctively braces himself for impact – biting down hard on his bottom lip – skittishly holding his breath—

—only to _immediately_ release it with a startled moan as Sakusa abruptly presses in on his prostate from both sides.

After all the torturous teasing – the dragged-out foreplay – the sudden burst of pleasure sends tingles skidding all the way to his toes. And Sakusa doesn’t let up either, stroking at the already oversensitive bump unforgivingly from the inside, massaging it through flushed skin from the outside. The cocktail of sensation is almost unbearably intense. It hits him with all the impact of a tequila shot.

Sakusa starts scissoring the fingers inside him now, diligently stretching out the tight muscle of Atsumu’s entrance. By the time he decides it’s loose enough to add a third, Atsumu’s head is spinning, his thighs starting to quiver with the weight of holding him up, the clammy wood mashed gracelessly against his face. He barely registers the twinge of pain that comes with the third finger – though he does cry out when Sakusa spreads all three at once, a euphoric electricity pulsing through his veins.

 _More_ , he registers, dimly, through the dizzying fog starting to muddle his brain. This has been – going on long enough. He needs – he needs—

“…C’mon, Omi, ’m ready,” he grinds out, his voice sounding just as shaky as he feels. “I want – you’re takin’ _ages_ —”

“I just wanted to make sure I wouldn’t hurt you,” says Sakusa. It’s a little gravelly around the edges, Atsumu notes: at least he’s not the only one, then, who’s mortifyingly affected right now. The entire room feels thick with suffocating heat.

With a rush of adrenaline he finally hears Sakusa get to his feet behind him, and laboriously raises his head off the desk to look back briefly over his shoulder. He sucks in a sharp breath at once. Sakusa had sounded so perfectly poised the entire time, almost unperturbed, but his body gives away what his voice managed to conceal – the rapid rise and fall of his chest; the colour high on his cheeks; the impatience simmering in his blown pupils, half-shielded by the curtain of his curls, as his gaze rakes up and down the entirety of Atsumu’s body. _God._ Even the sight of him is intoxicating.

Sakusa’s eyes return to Atsumu’s face – catch him staring. He licks his lips unconsciously.

Atsumu breathes at him, “ _Hurry_.”

Without breaking eye contact with him, Sakusa tilts down his chin to take the collar of his own shirt between his teeth and hitches it up, revealing the buttons of his slacks below them. He reaches down with both hands to undo them quickly. Atsumu can just make out the outline of his cock in his boxers. His pulse seizes as Sakusa lowers his waistband just enough to tug it out – it’s flushed, leaking – completely hard as he pulls on a condom with the same long fingers that were inside Atsumu just a moment ago. As he watches, Sakusa reaches for the lube again and coats himself generously and meticulously, a bead of gel collecting at the tip of his cock and then slowly dripping off him.

“Aren’t you—” Atsumu feels winded. Steadying his voice, he tries again: “Aren’t you gonna – take anythin’ else off?”

“Oh,” says Sakusa, glancing over him. “Yes, you’re right. Almost forgot.”

He leans over and smoothly tugs the bathrobe all the way off Atsumu’s shoulders and arms in one go. The silk spills off his back, pooling beneath him on the floor.

Atsumu feels a blush spread over his face and says indignantly, “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, I know what you meant,” Sakusa cuts in, “but this is better. Hold onto the desk again.”

Atsumu scrabbles to do as he’s told, barely given a moment to latch back onto the wood before Sakusa’s lining himself up at his entrance – grasping his hip with one hand – and then pushing in, _finally_ , the delicious ache of it throbbing through Atsumu’s entire lower half, his grip on the desk slipping as his eyes fall closed of their own will.

“ _Ah_ ,” he gasps, as Sakusa bottoms out and he feels his hole clench reflexively in response, “oh – fuck. Oh my God. _Fuck_.”

Sakusa doesn’t move, panting heavily behind him, his fingers digging into the fleshy part of Atsumu’s hip. “Are you okay?” he bites out.

Not trusting his own vocal cords any longer, Atsumu squeezes his eyes further closed and nods furiously. The gesture knots his sweat-damp hair between the side of his face and the surface of the desk. He doesn’t even want to _imagine_ how much of an utter mess he looks like right now.

Fortunately, Sakusa doesn’t seem to care. As though Atsumu’s nod was the twist of the final bolt holding together his self-restraint, he releases a ragged groan and pulls nearly all the way back out before thrusting back into him, faster this time, doing it again – fucking him in earnest. Atsumu’s so turned on at this point that he can barely breathe. Every time Sakusa rocks against him he can do little else but let out an anguished little cry, getting increasingly light-headed, increasingly faint.

He so, so badly needs to touch himself. It feels like his arousal’s been stretched completely thin over far too many excruciating minutes – he’s not sure he can endure it much longer – it’s pure _torment_ at this point. A single firm stroke of his cock could probably send him right over the edge. But the second he attempts to lift a hand from the desk to do just that, Sakusa reaches over and pins both his wrists unyieldingly, leaning down and crowding him into the wood with his entire body.

“I never said you could do that,” he says roughly.

Atsumu almost sobs. His fingers clench and unclench helplessly in Sakusa’s grip.

Humming in approval, Sakusa fucks back into him, hard. Atsumu jerks forward on the desk with a whimper. He realises with feverish humiliation that there are desperate tears now pricking at the corners of his eyes, and tries to formulate the right words to get Sakusa to just – just let him _touch_ —

What eventually escapes him is entirely incoherent, though, a strangled moan more than an actual phrase. Sakusa doesn’t slow his relentless pace for even a second as he huffs out a chuckle and says with condescending amusement, “Hm? Sorry, I don’t think I quite caught that. If you want something, you’ll have to ask for it properly.”

Yes, but he’s – he’s _Miya Atsumu_ , for Christ’s sake. For the hundredth time – he doesn’t – he absolutely, on principle, refuses to be the one to beg during sex. He’s supposed to be the one on the _receiving_ end of that. It’s really just – a matter of pride.

“I don’t,” he mumbles, the authority of the words admittedly a little undermined by the way the syllables trip over one another, “do… that. _Beg_. ’M not… I…”

“Okay, then,” says Sakusa, dismissively, not waiting for him to finish. “Don’t.”

This time, Atsumu really _does_ sob, every inch of skin on his body on fire as Sakusa’s pace quickens minutely, as he drives in faster, deeper. He feels like he’s bursting at the seams. The rims of his eyes are dashed wet. Oh God – it’s so good. It’s so good, and he’s so _close_ , goddammit, and if Sakusa doesn’t want him to touch himself then why doesn’t _he_ just do it, and – for fuck’s sake – he’s going to fucking _pass out_ – is he really about to – actually say it—?

“ _Please_ ,” he bursts out finally, the shame curling through him confusingly like a thrill. “P-please. I _need_ – just touch me, Omi, fuck, _please_ , I can’t – _nghh_ —!”

The sentence stutters into a fractured sound of pleasure as Sakusa lets go one of his wrists and swiftly takes his cock by the hand instead, his grip hot – tight – slippery. The overwhelming sensation of it all crashes into Atsumu with full force. He struggles for air, keening weakly as Sakusa strokes him down again, effortlessly matching pace with his thrusting. His other hand snakes its way into Atsumu’s scalp; fists at the tangled mess of hair and yanks, so Atsumu’s face lifts off the desk an inch.

“Is this what you wanted?” Sakusa murmurs into his ear.

Breathless, bleary, Atsumu can only manage to slur in response, “…Omi, I think… ’m gonna come.”

Sakusa exhales harshly. Tightens his fist in Atsumu’s hair. Fucks into him deeply. Atsumu’s toes curl in on themselves and he swallows, his throat thick. Sakusa tongues at the delicate skin of his neck – right below his ear – and then swipes a thumb deliciously, unhesitatingly, over the head of his cock.

“…Then come,” he commands, and Atsumu whines brokenly in response, the delirious tears finally leaking out of his eyes in relief as he presses them shut, the shudder of his orgasm wracking his entire frame as he clutches at the desk and comes, and comes, and comes into Sakusa’s hand.

He’s still wading through the high of it when he hears the rhythm of the breath behind him skip, and then teeth are sinking into the flesh of his shoulder as Sakusa muffles his own groan as he comes. He whimpers at the nick of pain on his skin – hopes it leaves a bruise as deep as it feels. Wishes fleetingly once again that he could see Sakusa properly right now. Watch the expression on his face crack with pleasure.

Sakusa licks over the bite in his shoulder hotly, panting a little as he slowly pulls out and does up his buttons. “…Sorry.”

Atsumu peels himself gingerly off the desk. All of his muscles are cramping up. It’s kind of nice, though. “Mm. Don’t worry. ’S fine.”

“But is it—?” He senses Sakusa’s momentary pause and knows immediately what’s coming next. “Well. Is it true you… don’t like people marking you?”

Atsumu’s voice still feels slightly unsteady, but he answers anyway, straightening his elbows to brace himself against the desk as he waits for the feeling to return to his legs. To be honest, a part of him finds this a little funny. “Um – are we really – doin’ this _right_ after we’ve both just come?”

“I _did_ say we’d talk afterwards.” To his relief, Sakusa seems to see some of the humour in the situation as well – there’s a sliver of amusement lacing his tone. Both his hands are resting lightly on Atsumu’s hips, supporting him as he steadies himself. “The two of us aren’t very good at waiting around, after all.”

“Beg to differ. I’d say we were almost too good.” Atsumu twists in Sakusa’s grip to face him properly, curling his fingers around on the edge of the desk and smirking at him. “Yeah, fine, y’got me. Samu was right. I don’t usually let people leave… well.” He looks down at himself and gestures to the various bites and bruises Sakusa’s left scattered all over his skin. “These.”

Sakusa regards him contemplatively. “And what does that mean for me, then?”

“C’mon now, Omi.” He yawns, stretches, pretends it doesn’t matter. Reaches down to pick up the discarded bathrobe and shrugs it back on carelessly. “Y’can read between the lines.”

He wriggles free from where he’s enclosed between Sakusa and the desk now, the bathrobe untied and half-hanging off one of his shoulders as he pads over to the ensuite. He can already feel the dull ache starting between his legs; it’ll probably have settled in by morning. The thought sends a possessive little shiver of triumph racing through him.

Reaching into the shower booth to turn the hot water on, Atsumu calls back out into the hazily-lit bedroom. “Promise we can talk about it properly after we shower,” he says, “but just so y’know – Sakusa Kiyoomi. From now on you’re mine.”

He glances out the ensuite door. Sakusa’s leaning against the edge of his desk, his arms loosely folded across his chest, the only evidence that he’s just fucked Atsumu into oblivion the faint flush that still dusts his neck – his face – his knuckles. He doesn’t say anything in response to Atsumu’s somewhat juvenile claim, but the very corner of his lip does curl up tellingly.

“And not as my bodyguard,” Atsumu adds. Steam is starting to puff out of the showerbooth into his face, and he bats it aside impatiently. He’ll get inside in just a second. “In a – quote-unquote – _unofficial_ capacity. As my—”

“As your what?” says Sakusa, when Atsumu breaks off to think about it. He doesn’t sound as sceptical now as he did earlier in the evening; throws out the question as more of a challenge. Like he’s already half-sure of the answer he’ll get. Huh. That won’t do at all.

Atsumu grins. “As my whatever-you-wanna-be, Omi.” He steps into the booth at last, letting the scalding water hit his feet as he tosses Sakusa’s bathrobe onto the marble basin nearby. “Guess you’ve got the next five minutes to figure it out.”

\- + -

“Ah,” says Kuroo, watching them from the bar as they step onto the yacht together, on the cusp of being late. “Mr Bodyguard. Nice to see you again.”

It’s a balmy evening, the water dyed amber by the last fragment of sun still jutting above the horizon. Music weaves in and out of laughter and small talk. There’s a soft wind in the air – fluttering the ends of ties, rippling through cocktail dresses – scattering the candied scent of prosecco bubbles and cologne over the deck.

“Er, _hi_ , I’m here too,” says Atsumu, leaning over to take a sip from Suna’s glass. It’s perhaps a testament to how often he does this that Suna doesn’t even spare the energy to bat an eye. “And – he’s not actually Mr Bodyguard anymore, I’ll have you know. He quit.”

They both raise their brows at that, and Atsumu lets the intrigue steep for a moment before saying, maybe with a little too much relish, “He’s here as my _plus-one_.”

Beside him, Sakusa releases a quiet sigh, as though unsurprised that Atsumu hasn’t even waited two minutes before making a huge deal out of dramatising this. But _as if_ Atsumu could’ve realistically resisted the urge to brag for long. Sakusa looks almost picturesque tonight, in the deep emerald-green suit he was dragged out to be fitted for, cut to perfection and in the exact same shade as the silk of his bathrobe.

(“You don’t need to buy me expensive things just because we’re together now,” he’d said mulishly, to which Atsumu had replied with utter seriousness, “Believe me, Omi, I have ulterior motives for wantin’ to see you in a suit this colour. _Trust_ me.” And it’s definitely paid off: the cashmere looks almost tantalisingly pretty against his dusk-lit skin.)

But neither Kuroo nor Suna react with the shocked awe he’d expected. Kuroo’s expression immediately splits into one of glee, and Suna huffs in mild annoyance before putting down his glass and wriggling at the white-gold band on his middle finger to loosen it. Atsumu gapes at them, baffled.

“Told you,” Kuroo says. “Told you they were hooking up.” He throws Atsumu a shit-eating grin and lifts his glass as though to toast him. “I’m never wrong about these things.”

A little stupefied, Atsumu blinks at him rapidly. “Wha—I… I just said he’s my plus-one!”

Suna pauses in the middle of slipping the ring off his finger, looking up from his hand briefly. “So you _haven’t_ been hooking up?”

When he only gets a chagrined silence in response as Atsumu stalls, Suna rolls his eyes and pulls the ring off completely at last, dropping it into Kuroo’s outstretched hand with a kind of flat resignation. “Atsumu. Your incapacity to keep it in your pants might actually end up ruining me one of these days.”

Kuroo gives him an encouraging pat on the back. “Tough luck. Maybe you should stop betting on his non-existent virtuousness and listen to me next time.”

“Well, I wasn’t betting on _Atsumu’s_ virtuousness this time,” Suna replies defensively, his eyes swivelling over to land on Sakusa now. “I was betting on _his_ ability not to—”

“Fuck his boss’s son, I get it,” says Kuroo, with a knowing nod; Atsumu squawks, and he hears Sakusa let out an uncharacteristically discomposed cough. “You don’t really seem the type, uh—”

“…Sakusa,” he supplies, sounding somewhat reluctant. Probably fair enough given the context. “It’s… a pleasure.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” Kuroo reaches out to shake his hand. “Or I guess it’s more accurate to say the pleasure’s all Atsumu’s—”

“Okay, right, thanks very much for your sparklin’ wit as always, Kuroo,” Atsumu cuts in loudly. He glances around them, looking for some sort of escape; this Grand Reveal is not going at _all_ in the way he’d imagined and it’s kind of throwing him off. He’s really got to start coming up with backup plans, he thinks. It seems that his foresight isn’t always… well. Twenty-twenty, so to speak. “Oi – are any of the others here?”

“They’re around somewhere, yeah. I think our resident airhead was trying to talk Dumb and Dumber into jumping in the water with him earlier.”

Happy to take whatever excuse he has available, Atsumu hastily grabs Sakusa’s arm and starts jostling him away from the bar. Sakusa makes a vague attempt to bat him away, disgruntled, but goes with him anyway. Atsumu calls back towards the bar over his shoulder, “We’ll go find ’em. You two stay – right here. Don’t follow us.”

“We weren’t going to,” says Suna.

“Yeah – okay – good, then. Good.”

Looping a hand around Sakusa’s elbow, Atsumu steers them both resolutely in the direction of the yacht railings, squeezing their way through the swarming bustle of guests. When they eventually reach it, he releases Sakusa’s arm and leans his side against the cool metal of the railing – turns to face him – reaches out to dust off one of the shoulders of the green suit. Sakusa lets him do it.

“So, that went well,” he remarks, deadpan.

Atsumu stops dusting and glowers at him without any real venom. “Well, if you’re so smart, did _you_ know that he’d guessed already? Huh?”

“I,” says Sakusa, and then, slowly, “had my suspicions, yes.”

“Y’had suspicions. That he had… suspicions. Is that what you’re sayin’?”

“You’re missing the point.” The look Sakusa gives him now is a little loaded, belying his seemingly relaxed stance. “You don’t – _have_ to tell everyone. I suppose it’s not really a problem if they still think I’m here as your bodyguard for a while.”

The sun has completely finishing sinking beneath the water by this point. Without warning, the hanging lanterns suspended around the perimeter of the yacht deck switch on, sending glistening lines of light skittering across the indigo harbour. There’s one dangling right above Sakusa’s head; it illuminates the high points of his face with a satiny lustre and paints the tops of his eyelashes silver. His voice, as impassive as ever, shimmers with a silver edge too: _you don’t have to tell everyone._ An out – proffered to Atsumu in case he’s finding this all more awkward than he’d anticipated – with the pretence of being nothing selfless. Nothing particularly considerate.

Atsumu’s heart squeezes. God. Every little thing about him is so gorgeous.

“I want to,” he says, earnestly. “I want them to know. I wanna show you off.”

Sakusa just regards him mutely, looking distinctly unconvinced.

Atsumu adds, “And you’ve quit anyway, so it doesn’t _really_ matter if it gets back to dad. Might be helpful, actually. Might stop him from tryin’ to find me a new bodyguard in case I seduce that one too.”

That earns him a customary look of condemnation. “For the hundredth time: you aren’t funny.”

Atsumu pokes his tongue out at him, petty. “And _you_ liked me first.”

Unable to resist himself, he ducks forward and captures Sakusa’s lips in a fleeting, chaste kiss before any retort can escape them. Even now there’s something about the knowledge that he can do it whenever he likes that sets off pyrotechnics in his chest. To be able to cross out the ‘stolen’ in _stolen kisses_ : it’s a luxury in its own right, fragile and new, dazzling.

“Hey,” he mumbles into Sakusa’s lips, not wanting to pull away just yet. “Omi. I like-like you, too. Lots.”

Though he’s too close to see it, he feels Sakusa’s mouth curve briefly into a tiny, discreet smile against his, before he manages to flatten it out again as he answers, “Yes. So you tell me every day. I think I know by now.”

“Mm. Good.” And because the laws of the universe don’t allow you to say something as corny as that without following it up with something stupid to restore balance, he dips a hand into his pocket, pulls something out, and tucks it into Sakusa’s in one quick move. Then he backs away from the kiss so he can watch Sakusa’s face as he feels around in his pocket for the mystery object.

It’s obvious when Sakusa’s fingers successfully close around it, because his expression races through just as entertaining a series of emotions as Atsumu had expected. The glare that makes up the tail end of it is predictably withering.

“So – round two?” Atsumu quips, suggestively.

“You’re truly out of control.”

“Yeah, maybe. But hey – y’know – I reckon I could hold it longer this time. Sure you don’t wanna try?”

Sakusa stares at him wordlessly for a moment, looking simultaneously as though he can’t quite believe that Atsumu is a real person who actually exists, and also as though he thinks this warrants a solid hit in the face, and _also_ like he maybe finds the whole thing just a little bit – the _tinest_ bit – tempting.

Well. It’s Atsumu’s branding as irresponsible and reckless that brought them together in the first place. It wouldn’t be _right_ for him not to stay loyal to that brand now.

He tilts his head to one side; tosses Sakusa a challenge of a smirk. The dark eyes that hold onto his don’t falter.

(And there: that’s why, Atsumu finds himself thinking, with a flood of saccharine warmth. That’s exactly why he knows the two of them will work. When neither one of them backtracks, they always end up meeting right in the middle.)

“…Miya Atsumu,” Sakusa says finally, even as his hand curls deep in his pocket and doesn’t let go, “I think somebody might need to get you a bodyguard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaa !!!!!!
> 
> hello hello hello! i'm just here to say a quick tiny thank u, to anyone who has read / left kudos on / commented on / shared this in any capacity. your encouragement was what helped me see this through and finish things!! special thank u to [jennie](https://twitter.com/ASPHODELLAE) for the 'fucking your boss's son' line. u r brilliant.
> 
> sorry everybody about the part where i edged u for nearly 19k words (yikes lol) but ~~don't lie u liked the suffering bc u r a skts stan~~ i hope this made up for it somewhat. if it did, i would be very very happy and grateful if u gave it some love [here](https://twitter.com/soeunaa99/status/1327798152489963520?s=20) (same link to direct ur complaints to pls xoxo) or told me in the comments which bit u liked the most (it's the ✨ begging ✨ for me)
> 
> also, if u, like me, are developing a Bodyguard Omi Problem, might i suggest u head straight to [elephant gun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25789699/chapters/62640229) next? and yeah let's be honest if ur a bodyguard omi simp you've already read it but like…………idc read it again ely is amazing
> 
> see u soon for the next installation of skts fwb clowntown !!! bye ! 💛


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